IN 


tim 


Love  in   Literature  and  Art 


Love  in  Literature 
and  Art 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED  BY 

ESTHER     SINGLETON 

Aiitlior   of  "Turrets,     Towers    and    Temples" 
"Great  Pictures"    "Wonders   of  Nature" 
"Romantic    Castles   and  Palaces"    "A 
Guide  to  the  Opera"  and  Transla- 
tor of  "The  Music  Dramas 
of  Richard    Wagner  " 


New  York 

Dodd,   Mead  and   Company 
1901 


Copyright,  1901 

by 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

First  Edition  published  October,  IQOI 


Preface 


TN  the  present  compilation,  I  have  endeavoured  to  include 
as  great  a  variety  as  possible  of  mood  and  expression  in 
love.  At  the  same  time,  the  method  of  treatment  adopted 
by  the  great  writers  has  also  guided  the  selection.  I  there- 
fore hope  that  the  contents  of  this  volume  may  be  of  inter- 
est to  the  student  of  literature  as  well  as  to  the  casual 
reader  who  merely  takes  pleasure  in  fictitious  emotional 
crises,  or  the  entertaining  situations  of  love's  lighter  vein. 
The  literary  treatment  of  the  great  passion  by  the  great 
masters  of  romance,  as  revealed  even  in  the  limited  space 
at  my  command,  alone  forms  a  most  instructive  study. 
Moreover,  the  chronological  arrangement  of  the  excerpts 
enables  the  reader  to  comprehend  the  varied  notions  of  ideal 
propriety  in  the  female  at  different  periods.  The  correct 
attitude  of  reserve  maintained  by  the  heroine  under  the 
ordeal  of  a  proposal  of  marriage  during  the  Eighteenth 
Century,  and  the  initiative  she  might  assume  under  the 
strong  impulse  of  love  at  other  periods,  are  shown  in  the 
following  pages  by  many  examples.  Most  striking  is  the 
lead  taken  by  the  woman  in  the  old  Romans; — two  in- 
stances of  which  are  given  in  Blonde  of  Oxford  and  Nic- 
olete.  Don  Quixote's  mad  pranks  in  Love's  service  are 
included  as  being  only  slight  exaggerations  of  what  was 
expected  of  the  true  lover  in  the  ancient  days  when  the 
Courts  of  Love  were  sitting. 

The   moods  of  love  being  innumerable,  we  have   here 


VI 


Preface 


instances  of  love  at  first  sight,  ferocious  and  tenacious  pur- 
suit of  the  unloving,  quarrels,  reconciliations,  misunder- 
standings, pardons,  concealed  love  that  fears  to  speak,  timid 
appeals,  stratagems  to  trick  hated  guardians,  woman's  wiles 
and  man's  contrivances,  the  devotion  of  the  disguised  page, 
old  love  that  re-awakens,  love  that  lingers  even  behind 
cloister  bars,  love  that  faces  death  unflinchingly,  and  the 
despair  of  love  forsaken.  I  hope  that  the  sprinkling  of 
comedy  may  serve  as  a  welcome  relief  to  some  of  the  more 
tragic  pathos  in  these  pages. 

Some  of  the  famous  lovers  who  do  not  appear  in  the 
text  will  be  found  represented  in  the  pictures,  as  for  example 
Rinaldo  and  Armida,  Ulysses  and  Penelope,  Paolo  and 
Francesca,  Paris  and  Helen,  Bradamante  and  Fiordispina, 
.and  Cupid  and  Psyche.  There  will  also  be  found  among 
;the  illustrations  several  Gardens  of  Love,  in  which  gay 
-couples  u  fleet  the  time  carelessly  as  they  did  in  the  golden 
<world."  And  these  are  interesting  to  compare  with  such 
serious  themes  as  The  Marriage  Contract  by  Jan  Steen  and 
Rembrandt's  Fiancee.  A  great  number  of  schools  of  art 
are  represented  in  this  small  gallery  of  pictures :  early 
Italian,  Flemish,  German,  French  and  English  painters 
of  note,  covering  a  period  from  Botticelli  to  Burne-Jones 
and  Rossetti,  have  been  drawn  upon  to  show  how  differ- 
ently the  theme  of  love  has  inspired  them.  The  extracts 
from  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish  and  The  Marble  Faun 
are  included  by  permission  of  and  by  special  arrangement 
with  Messrs.  Hougton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

E.  S. 

Neiu  York,  September, 


Table  of  Contents 


PAGE 

THE  SCORNED  SHEPHERD  ......        i 

Theocritus 

A  DIRGE  OF  LOVE  .......       4 

Bion 

THE  PARTING  OF  SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  GUINEVERE  .          .        8 

Sir  Thomas  Malory 

A  FAIR,  BRAVE  SWEETHEART       .          .          .          .          .          .11 

(Anonymous) 

A  LOVE-TRYST         .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .16 

Philippe  de  Reimes 

AZIZ  AND  AZIZAH        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  19 

(Anonymous) 

A  VICTIM  OF  LOVE  .......      25 

Anonymous) 

A  LOVE  LETTER       ........     27 

John  Lyly 

A  ROUNDELAY  OF  LOVE     .......     30 

George  Peele 

BRITOMART  AND  ARTEGALL         ......     33 

Edmund  Spenser 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET  .          .          .          .          .          .          -37 

William  Shakespeare 


DIDO  AND  ^ENEAS     ........     43 

Christopher  Marlowe 

CONCEALED  LOVE       ...  ....      50 

William  Shakespeare 


viii                Table  of  Contents 

THE  PROUD,  DISDAINFUL  SHEPHERDESS 
William  Shakespeare 

PAGE 

•     53 

LOVE'S  PENANCE       .....         ^ 
Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra 

.     58 

UNREQUITED  LOVE             ..... 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

.         .     65 

PERIGOT  AND  AMORET       ..... 

John  Fletcher 

.     68 

THE  BEREAVED  LOVER       ..... 
Ben  Jonson 

•     73 

A  LADY'S  STRATAGEM        ..... 

Jean  Baptiste  Moliere 

.         .     76 

A  LOVERS'  QUARREL         ..... 

Jean  Baptiste  Moliere 

.         .     85 

THE  PERVERSE  WIDOW     ..... 
Sir  Richard  Steele 

.92 

MERCY  AND  NOT  JUSTICE           .... 
Henry  Fielding 

•     97 

EXQUISITE  PROPRIETY      .            .          .         . 

.     102 

Samuel  Richardson 

MY  UNCLE  TOBY  AND  THE  WIDOW  WADMAN 
Laurence  Sterne 

A  LUCKY  MISTAKE  ..... 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

A  SENTIMENTAL  LOVER     ..... 

Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe 

A  PERVERSE  LADY    ...... 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan 

WAS  SHE  TO  BLAME  ?         .          . 

Frances  Burney 

THROUGH  LOVE,  A  SOUL  .... 

Friedrich  Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouqu'e 


Table  of  Contents 

ix 

LOVE'S  BEGINNINGS 

Jane  Austen 

PACK 
•     133 

EXPLANATIONS 

Jane  Austen 

.     I36 

LOVE  AND  FATE 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

.     I42 

LOVE  UNTO  DEATH 

Lord  Byron 

.     149 

ORIENTAL  CRAFT 

James  Morier 

•     »S7 

LOVE  AND  DECORUM 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

.     162 

A  TRAGIC  MEETING 

Honor'e  de  Balzac 

.     I/O 

LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT 

Th'eophile  Gautier 

.     I76 

His  FIRST  LOVE 

Charles  Dickens 

.    181 

FIDELITY  IN  LOVE     ....... 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 

.    189 

A  SPIRIT  SPELL 

L.  Becquer 

•   '92 

A  TIMID  WOOER 

Cuthbert  Bede 

•   J99 

A  GENEROUS  LOVER 

Charles  Dickens 

.   208 

A  LOVERS'  JOURNEY           ...... 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray 

.   215 

THE  TORMENTS  OF  DESIRE         ..... 
Th'eophile  Gautier 

.   219 

AN  UNWELCOME  SUITOR 

.   224 

Henry  Wads-worth  Longfellow 


Table   of  Contents 


PAGE 

A  LOVE  IDYLL          ........   229 

George  Meredith 

THE  LOVE  OF  A  GAY  SPIRIT       .          .          .          .          .          -233 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

FRANK  CONFESSIONS  .......   238 

George  Eliot 

IN  THE  GOLD  OF  AUGUST  ......   244 

Richard  Doddridge  Blackmore 

PYGMALION  AND  GALATEA  .          .          .          .          .          .252 

William  S,  Gilbert 

MAN'S  LOVE  AND  WOMAN'S  LOVE        .....    259 
William  S.  Gilbert 

Tu  QUOQUE  ' 266 

Austin  Dobson 

THE  LANG  COORTIN'         .......   268 

Lewis  Carroll 

A  SOLDIER'S  WOOING        .......   273 

Rudyard  Kipling 

A  HAPPY  ENDING    ........   279 

James  Matthew  Barrie 

TENDER  MEMORIES  .......   284 

Anthony  Hope 


Illustrations 


RUBENS Garden  of  Love     .      .        Frontispiece 

RUBENS Venus  and  Adonis       ....        5 

ROSSETTI        King  Rene's  Honeymoon  ...      14 

STRUDWICK Elaine 25 

DOMENICHINO      ....  Rinaldo  and  Armida        .      .      .35 

DICKSEE Romeo  and  Juliet       ....      41 

ANGELICA  KAUFMANN    .      .  Ariadne  Forsaken       ....      48 

MACLISE Malvolio  and  Olivia  .      .      .      .      58 

GREIFFENHAGEN        .     .     .     An  Idyll 72 

WATTEAU The  Garden  of  Love        .      .      .      82 

TERBOCH The  Lovers 92 

FRAGONARD Declaration  of  Love   .      .      .      .102 

LESLIE Uncle  Toby  and  the  Widow       .    107 

KAULBACH Werther  and  Charlotte  .      .      .115 

MACLISE Undine       .      .      .      .      .      .      .    1 29 

HENLEY Suspense 139 

PALMA  VECCHIO        .      .      .  Jacob  and  Rachel      .      .      .      .    1 49 

DAVID Paris  and  Helen 158 

GIORGIONE,  SCHOOL  OF       .  The  Garden  of  Love  .     .     .     .169 

PINTURICCHIO      ....  Ulysses  and  Penelope  .     .     .     .    1 80 

FRAGONARD U Heure  du  Berger    .      .      .      .190 

BURNE-JONES        ....      Chant  d1  Amour 200 

COYPEL Flare  et  Zephir 208 

REMBRANDT    .      .      .      .      .      La  Fiancee 216 

CLAUDE  LORRAINE    .      .      .      Ads  and  Galatea 224 

GUIDO  RENI Bradamante  e  Fiordispina     .      .232 

ROSSETTI Paolo  and  Francesca   ....    241 


Xll 


Illustrations 


BOTTICELLI      .     .     .      Mars  and  Venus 248 

JAN  STEEN        .     .     .  The  Marriage  Contract      .     .     .     .257 

BURNE-JONES  .      .      .      Cupid  and  Psyche 268 

MORLON     ....  Louis  XIV.  and  Mile,  de  la  Valliere,   279 

ALMA-TADEMA      .      .      Promise  of  Spring 288 


Love  in     & 
Literature  and 


THE  SCORNED  SHEPHERD 

THEOCRITUS 

A  goatherd,  leaving  his  goats  to  feed  on  the  hillside,  in  the  charge  of 
Tityrus,  approaches  the  cavern  of  Amaryllis,  with  its  veil  of  ferns  and  ivy, 
and  attempts  to  win  back  the  heart  of  the  girl  by  song.  He  mingles 
promises  with  harmless  threats,  and  repeats,  in  exquisite  verses,  the  names 
of  the  famous  lovers  of  old  days,  Milanion  and  Endymion.  Failing  to 
move  Amaryllis,  the  goatherd  threatens  to  die  where  he  has  thrown  him- 
self down,  beneath  the  trees. 

/COURTING  Amaryllis  with  song  I  go,  while  my  she- 
goats  feed  on  the  hill,  and  Tityrus  herds  them.  Ah, 
Tityrus,  my  dearly  beloved,  feed  thou  the  goats,  and  to  the 
well-side  lead  them,  Tityrus,  and  'ware  the  yellow  Libyan 
he-goat,  lest  he  butt  thee  with  his  horns. 

Ah,  lovely  Amaryllis,  why  no  more,  as  of  old,  dost  thou 
glance  through  this  cavern  after  me,  nor  callest  me,  thy 
sweetheart,  to  thy  side  ?  Can  it  be  that  thou  hatest  me  ? 
Do  I  seem  snub-nosed,  now  that  thou  hast  seen  me  near, 
maiden,  and  under-hung  ?  Thou  wilt  make  me  strangle 
myself! 

Lo  !  ten  apples  I  bring  thee,  plucked  from  that  very  place 
where  thou  didst  bid  me  pluck  them,  and  others  to-morrow 
I  will  bring  thee. 

Ah,  regard  my  heart's  deep  sorrow  !  Ah,  would  I  were 
that  humming  bee,  and  to  thy  cave  might  come  dipping  be- 
neath the  fern  that  hides  thee,  and  the  ivy  leaves  ! 

Now  know  I  Love,  and  a  cruel  God  is  he.  Surely  he 
sucked  the  lioness's  dug,  and  in  the  wild  wood  his  mother 


2        Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

reared  him,  whose  fire  is  scorching  me,  and  bites  even  to  the 
bone. 

Ah,  lovely  as  thou  art  to  look  upon,  ah  heart  of  stone,  ah 
dark-browed  maiden,  embrace  me,  thy  true  goatherd,  that  I 
may  kiss  thee,  and  even  in  empty  kisses  there  is  a  sweet 
delight. 

Soon  wilt  thou  make  me  rend  the  wreath  in  pieces  small, 
the  wreath  of  ivy,  dear  Amaryllis,  that  I  keep  for  thee,  with 
rose-buds  twined,  and  fragrant  parsley.  Ah  me,  what 
anguish !  Wretched  that  I  am,  whither  shall  I  turn ! 

i 

Thou  dost  not  hear  my  prayer  ! 

I  will  cast  off  my  coat  of  skins,  and  into  yonder  waves 
will  I  spring,  where  the  fisher  Olpis  watches  for  the  tunny 
shoals,  and  even  if  I  die  not,  surely  thy  pleasure  will  have 
been  done. 

I  learned  the  truth  of  old,  when,  amid  thoughts  of  thee, 
I  asked,  "  Loves  she,  loves  she  not  ?  "  and  the  poppy  petal 
clung  not,  and  gave  no  crackling  sound,  but  withered  on  my 
smooth  forearm,  even  so. 

And  she  too  spoke  sooth,  even  Agroeo,  she  that  divineth 
with  a  sieve,  and  of  late  was  binding  sheaves  beneath  the 
reapers,  who  said  that  I  had  set  all  my  heart  on  thee,  but 
that  thou  didst  nothing  regard  me. 

Truly  I  keep  for  thee  the  white  goat  with  the  twin  kids 
that  Mermnon's  daughter  too,  the  brown-skinned  Erithacis, 
prays  me  to  give  her ;  and  give  her  them  I  will,  since  thou 
dost  flout  me. 

My  right  eyelid  throbs,  is  it  a  sign  that  I  am  to  see  her  ? 
Here  will  I  lean  me  against  this  pine  tree,  and  sing,  and 
then  perchance  she  will  regard  me,  for  she  is  not  all  of 
adamant. 

Lo  !  Hippomenes,  when  he  was  eager  to  marry  the  famous 
maiden,  took  apples  in  his  hand,  and  so  accomplished  his 
course ;  and  Atalanta  saw,  and  madly  longed,  and  leaped 
into  the  deep  waters  of  desire.  Melampus  too,  the  sooth- 
sayer, brought  the  herd  of  oxen  from  Othrys  to  Pylos,  and 
thus  in  the  arms  of  Bias  was  laid  the  lovely  mother  of  wise 
Alphesiboea. 

And  was  it  not  thus  that  Adonis,  as  he  pastured  his  sheep 
upon  the  hills,  led  beautiful  Cytherea  to  such  heights  of 


The   Scorned  Shepherd 


rapture,  that  not  even  in  his  death  doth  she  unclasp  him 
from  her  bosom  ?  Blessed,  methinks,  is  the  lot  of  him 
that  sleeps,  and  tosses  not,  nor  turns,  even  Endymion  ;  and, 
dearest  maiden,  blessed  I  call  lason,  whom  such  things  be- 
fell, as  ye  that  be  profane  shall  never  come  to  know. 

My  head  aches,  but  thou  carest  not.  I  will  sing  no  more, 
but  dead  will  I  lie  where  I  fall,  and  here  may  the  wolves 
devour  me. 

Sweet  as  honey  in  the  mouth  may  my  death  be  tothee! 

{Written  in  the  Third  Century,  B.  C.} 


4       Love  in   Literature  and  Art 


A  DIRGE  OF  LOVE 

BION 

woe  for  Adonis,  he  hath  perished,  the  beauteous 
Adonis,  dead  is  the  beauteous  Adonis,  the  Loves 
join  in  the  lament.  No  more  in  thy  purple  raiment, 
Cypris,  do  thou  sleep  ;  arise,  thou  wretched  one,  sable- 
stoled,  and  beat  thy  breasts,  and  say  to  all,  "  He  hath  per- 
ished, the  lovely  Adonis  !  " 

Woe,  woe  for  Adonis,  the  Loves  join  in  the  lament ! 

Low  on  the  hills  is  lying  the  lovely  Adonis,  and  his  thigh 
with  the  boar's  tusk,  his  white  thigh  with  the  boar's  tusk  is 
wounded,  and  sorrow  on  Cypris  he  brings,  as  softly  he 
breathes  his  life  away. 

His  dark  blood  drips  down  his  skin  of  snow,  beneath  his 
brows  his  eyes  wax  heavy  and  dim,  and  the  rose  flees  from 
his  lip,  and  thereon  the  very  kiss  is  dying,  the  kiss  that 
Cypris  will  never  forego. 

To  Cypris  his  kiss  is  dear,  though  he  lives  no  longer,  but 
Adonis  knew  not  that  she  kissed  him  as  he  died. 

Woe,  woe  for  Adonis,  the  Loves  join  in  the  lament. 

A  cruel,  cruel  wound  on  his  thigh  hath  Adonis,  but  a 
deeper  wound  in  her  heart  doth  Cytherea  bear.  About  him 
his  dear  hounds  are  loudly  baying,  and  the  nymphs  of  the 
wild  wood  wail  him  ;  but  Aphrodite  with  unbound  locks 
through  the  glades  goes  wandering, — wretched,  with  hair 
unbraided,  with  feet  unsandaled,  and  the  thorns  as  she 
passes  wound  her  and  pluck  the  blossom  of  her  sacred 
blood.  Shrill  she  wails  as  down  the  long  woodlands  she  is 
borne,  lamenting  her  Assyrian  lord,  and  again  calling  him, 
and  again.  But  round  his  navel  the  dark  blood  leapt  forth, 
with  blood  from  his  thighs  his  chest  was  scarlet,  and  be- 
neath Adonis's  breast,  the  spaces  that  afore  were  snow- 
white  were  purple  with  blood. 


A  Dirge  of  Love 


Woe,  woe  for  Cytherea,  the  Loves  join  in  the  lament! 

She  hath  lost  her  lovely  lord,  with  him  she  hath  lost  her 
sacred  beauty.  Fair  was  the  form  of  Cypris,  while  Adonis 
was  living,  but  her  beauty  has  died  with  Adonis  !  Woe, 
woe  for  Cypris,  the  mountains  are  all  saying,  and  the  oak- 
trees  answer,  Woe  for  Adonis.  And  the  rivers  bewail  the 
sorrows  of  Aphrodite,  and  the  wells  are  weeping  Adonis  on 
the  mountains.  The  flowers  flush  red  for  anguish,  and 
Cytherea  through  all  the  mountain-knees,  through  every 
dell,  doth  shrill  the  piteous  dirge. 

Woe,  woe  for  Cytherea,  he  bath  perished,  the  lovely  Adonis! 

And  Echo  cried  in  answer,  He  hath  perished,  the  lovely 
Adonis.  Nay,  who  but  would  have  lamented  the  grievous 
love  of  Cypris  ?  When  she  saw,  when  she  marked  the  un- 
staunched  wound  of  Adonis,  when  she  saw  the  bright  red 
blood  about  his  languid  thigh,  she  cast  her  arms  abroad  and 
moaned,  "  Abide  with  me,  Adonis,  hapless  Adonis  abide, 
that  this  last  time  of  all  I  may  possess  thee,  that  I  may 
cast  myself  about  thee,  and  lips  with  lips  may  mingle. 
Awake,  Adonis,  for  a  little  while,  and  kiss  me  yet  again, 
the  latest  kiss !  Nay  kiss  me  but  a  moment,  but  the 
lifetime  of  a  kiss,  till  from  thine  inmost  soul  into  my 
lips,  into  my  heart,  thy  life-breath  ebb,  and  till  I  drain 
thy  sweet  love-philtre,  and  drink  down  all  thy  love. 
This  kiss  will  I  treasure,  even  as  thyself  Adonis,  since, 
ah  ill-fated,  thou  art  fleeing  me,  thou  art  fleeing  far, 
Adonis,  and  art  faring  to  Acheron,  to  that  hateful  king  and 
cruel,  while  wretched  I  yet  live,  being  a  goddess,  and  may 
not  follow  thee !  Persephone,  take  thou  my  lover,  my 
lord,  for  thyself  art  stronger  than  I,  and  all  lovely  things 
drift  down  to  thee.  But  I  am  all  ill-fated,  inconsolable  is 
my  anguish,  and  I  lament  mine  Adonis,  dead  to  me,  and  I 
have  no  rest  for  sorrow. 

"  Thou  diest,  O  thrice-desired,  and  my  desire  hath  flown 
away  as  a  dream.  Nay,  widowed  is  Cytherea,  and  idle  are 
the  Loves  along  the  halls.  With  thee  has  the  girdle  of  my 
beauty  perished.  For  why,  ah  overbold,  didst  thou  follow 
the  chase,  and  being  so  fair,  why  wert  thou  thus  overhardy 
to  fight  with  beasts  ?  " 


6       Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

So  Cypris  bewailed  her,  the  Loves  join  in  the  lament : 
Woe,  woe  for  Cytherea,  he  hath  perished,  the  lovely  Adonis  ! 

A  tear  the  Paphian  sheds  for  each  blood-drop  of  Adonis, 
and  tears  and  blood  on  the  earth  are  turned  to  flowers. 
The  blood  brings  forth  the  rose;  the  tears,  the  wind-flower. 

Woe,  woe  for  Adonis,  he  hath  perished,  the  lovely  Adonis! 

No  more  in  the  oak-woods,  Cypris,  lament  thy  lord.  It 
is  no  fair  couch  for  Adonis,  the  lonely  bed  of  leaves  ! 
Thine  own  bed,  Cytherea,  let  him  now  possess, — the  dead 
Adonis.  Ah,  even  in  death  he  is  beautiful,  beautiful  in 
death,  as  one  that  hath  fallen  on  sleep.  Now  lay  him 
down  to  sleep  in  his  own  soft  coverlets,  wherein  with  thee 
through  the  night  he  shared  the  holy  slumber  in  a  couch  all 
of  gold,  that  yearns  for  Adonis,  though  sad  is  he  to  look 
upon.  Cast  on  him  garlands  and  blossoms :  all  things 
have  perished  in  his  death,  yea  all  the  flowers  are  faded. 
Sprinkle  him  with  ointments  of  Syria,  sprinkle  him  with 
unguents  of  myrrh.  Nay,  perish  all  perfumes,  for  Adonis, 
who  was  thy  perfume,  hath  perished. 

He  reclines,  the  delicate  Adonis,  in  his  raiment  of  pur- 
ple, and  around  him  the  Loves  are  weeping,  and  groaning 
aloud,  clipping  their  locks  for  Adonis.  And  one  upon  his 
shafts,  another  upon  his  bow  is  treading,  and  one  hath 
loosed  the  sandal  of  Adonis,  and  another  hath  broken  his 
own  feathered  quiver,  and  one  in  a  golden  vessel  bears 
water,  and  another  laves  the  wound,  and  another  from  be- 
hind him  with  his  wings  is  fanning  Adonis. 

Woe,  woe  for  Cytherea,  the  Loves  join  in  the  lament. 

Every  torch  on  the  lintels  of  the  door  has  Hymenaeus 
quenched,  and  hath  torn  to  shreds  the  bridal  crown,  and 
Hymen  no  more,  Hymen  no  more  is  the  song,  but  a  new 
song  is  sung  of  wailing. 

"  Woe,  woe  for  Adonis"  rather  than  the  nuptial  song  the 
Graces  are  shrilling,  lamenting  the  son  of  Cinyras,  and  one 
to  the  other  declaring,  He  hath  perished,  the  lovely  Adonis. 

And  woe,  woe  for  Adonis,  shrilly  cry  the  Muses,  neg- 
lecting Paeon,  and  they  lament  Adonis  aloud,  and  songs 


A  Dirge   of  Love  7 

they  chant  to  him,  but  he  does  not  heed  them,  not  that  he 
is  loth  to  hear,  but  that  the  Maiden  of  Hades  doth  not  let 
him  go. 

Cease  Cytherea,  from  thy  lamentations,  to-day  refrain 
from  thy  dirges.  Thou  must  again  bewail  him,  again  must 
weep  for  him  another  year. 

(Written  in  the  Third  Century ,  B.  C.) 


8       Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


THE  PARTING  OF  SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND 
GUINEVERE 

SIR  THOMAS  MALORY 

'TPHEN  on  the  third  day  sir  Launcelot  called  unto  him 
the  kings,  dukes,  carles,  barrens,  and  knights,  and 
thus  hee  said  :  "  My  faire  lords,  I  thanke  you  all  of  your 
comming  hither  into  this  countrey  with  me ;  but  wee  come 
to  late,  and  that  shall  repent  me  while  I  live,  but  against 
death  there  may  no  man  rebell.  But  sith  it  is  so,"  said  sir 
Launcelot,  "  I  will  my  selfe  ride  and  seeke  my  lady  queene 
Guenever,  for  as  I  heare  say  shee  hath  had  much  paine  and 
great  disease,  and  I  have  heard  say  that  shee  is  fled  into  the 
west  countrey  ;  therefore  yee  all  shall  abide  mee  heere,  and 
but  if  I  come  againe  within  fifteene  dayes,  then  take  your 
ships  and  depart  into  your  countries,  for  I  will  doe  as  I 
have  said  to  you." 

Then  came  sir  Bors  de  Ganis,  and  said  :  "  My  lord  sir 
Launcelot,  what  thinke  yee  to  doe,  now  to  ride  in  this 
realme  ?  wit  yee  well  yee  shall  finde  few  friends." 

"  Bee  as  it  may,"  said  sir  Launcelot,  "  keepe  you  still 
heere,  for  I  will  forth  on  my  journey,  and  neither  man  nor 
child  shall  goe  with  mee."  So  it  was  no  boote  to  strive, 
but  hee  departed  and  rode  westward,  and  there  hee  sought 
seven  or  eight  dayes,  and  at  the  last  hee  came  unto  a  nunry. 
And  then  was  queene  Guenever  ware  of  sir  Launcelot  as 
hee  walked  in  the  cloyster;  and  when  shee  saw  him  there, 
shee  sowned  three  times,  that  all  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
women had  worke  enough  for  to  hold  the  queene  up.  So 
when  shee  might  speake,  shee  called  ladies  and  gentlewomen 
unto  her,  and  said,  "  Yee  mervaile,  faire  ladies,  why  I  make 
this  cheere.  Truly,"  said  shee,  "  it  is  for  the  sight  of  yon- 
der knight  which  yonder  standeth  ;  wherefore  I  pray  you 
all  to  call  him  unto  mee."  And  when  sir  Launcelot  was 
brought  unto  her,  then  shee  said,  "  Through  this  knight 
and  mee  all  these  warres  were  wrought,  and  the  death  of 


Sir   Launcelot:  and  Guinevere       9 

the  most  noble  knights  of  the  world  ;  for  through  our  love 
that  wee  have  loved  together  is  my  most  noble  lord  slaine. 
Therefore  wit  thou  well,  sir  Launcelot,  I  am  set  in  such  a 
plight  to  get  my  soule's  health  ;  and  yet  I  trust,  through 
God's  grace,  that  after  my  death  for  to  have  the  sight  of 
the  blessed  face  of  Jesu  Christ,  and  at  the  dreadfull  day  of 
dome  to  sit  on  his  right  side.  For  as  sinfull  creatures  as 
ever  was  I  are  saints  in  heaven. 

"  Therefore,  sir  Launcelot,  I  require  thee  and  beseech 
thee  heartely,  for  all  the  love  that  ever  was  betweene  us 
two,  that  thou  never  looke  mee  more  in  the  visage.  And 
furthermore  I  command  thee  on  God's  behalfe  right 
straightly,  that  thou  forsake  my  company,  and  that  unto 
thy  kingdome  shortly  thou  returne  againe,  and  keepe  well 
thy  realme  from  warre  and  wracke.  For  as  well  as  I  have 
loved  thee,  sir  Launcelot,  now  mine  heart  will  not  once 
serve  mee  to  see  thee ;  for  through  mee  and  thee  is  the  floure 
of  kings  and  knights  destroyed.  Therefore,  sir  Launcelot, 
goe  thou  unto  thy  realme,  and  there  take  thee  a  wife,  and 
live  with  her  in  joy  and  blisse.  And  I  beseech  thee 
heartely,  pray  for  mee  unto  our  Lord  God,  that  I  may 
amend  my  misse  living." 

"  Now,  sweete  madame,"  said  sir  Launcelot,  "would  yee 
that  I  should  now  returne  againe  into  my  countrey,  and 
there  to  wed  a  lady  ?  Nay,  madame,  wit  yee  well  that  I 
will  never  while  I  live  ;  for  I  shall  never  bee  so  false  to 
you,  of  that  I  have  promised,  but  the  same  desteny  that 
yee  have  taken  you  unto,  I  will  take  mee  unto,  for  to  please 
God,  and  speciall  to  pray  for  you." 

"  If  thou  wilt  doe  so,"  said  the  queene,  "  hold  thy 
promise ;  but  I  may  not  beleeve  but  that  thou  wilt  returne 
to  the  world  againe."  "Yee  say  well,"  said  hee,  "yet 
wist  yee  mee  never  false  of  my  promise,  and  God  defend 
but  that  I  should  forsake  the  world  like  as  yee  have  done. 
For  in  the  quest  of  the  sancgreall  I  had  forsaken  the  vani- 
ties of  the  world,  had  not  your  lord  beene.  And  if  I  had 
don  so  at  that  time,  with  my  heart,  will,  and  thought,  I 
had  passed  all  the  nights  that  were  in  quest  of  the  sanc- 
greall, except  sir  Galahad  my  sonne.  And  therefore, 
my  lady  dame  Guenever,  sithence  yee  have  taken  you 


10     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

unto  perfection,  I  must  needes  take  me  unto  perfection  of 
right. 

"For  I  take  record  of  God  in  you  have  I  had  mine 
earthly  joy.  And  if  I  had  found  you  so  disposed  now,  I 
had  cast  mee  for  to  have  had  you  in  mine  owne  realme  and 
countrey. 

"  But  sithence  I  finde  you  thus  disposed,  I  ensure  you 
faithfully  that  I  will  take  mee  to  pennance,  and  pray  while 
my  life  lasteth,  if  I  may  finde  any  good  hermite,  either 
gray  or  white,  that  will  receive  mee.  Wherefore,  madame, 
I  pray  you  kisse  mee  once  and  never  more."  "  Nay," 
said  the  queene,  "  that  I  shall  never  doe,  but  abstaine  you 
from  such  things."  And  so  they  departed.  But  there 
was  never  so  hard  a  hearted  man  but  hee  would  have  wept 
to  see  the  sorrow  that  they  made  ;  for  there  was  a  lamen- 
tation as  though  they  had  beene  stungen  with  speares,  and 
many  times  they  sowned,  and  the  ladies  beare  the  queene 
to  her  chamber ;  and  sir  Launcelot  awoke,  and  went  and 
tooke  his  horse  and  rode  all  that  day  and  all  that  night  in  a 
forrest  weeping.  And  at  the  last  hee  was  ware  of  an  her- 
mitage and  a  chappell  that  stood  betweene  two  cliffes,  and 
then  hee  heard  a  little  bell  ring  to  masse,  and  thither  he 
rode  and  alighted,  and  tied  his  horse  to  the  gate,  and  heard 
masse ;  and  he  that  sung  the  masse  was  the  bishop  of 
Canterbury.  Both  the  bishop  and  sir  Bedivere  knew  sir 
Launcelot,  and  they  spake  together  after  masse ;  but  when 
sir  Bedivere  had  told  him  his  tale  all  whole  sir  Launcelot's 
heart  almost  brast  for  sorrow  ;  and  sir  Launcelot  threw 
abroad  his  armour,  and  said,  "  Alas  !  who  may  trust  this 
world  ? " 

And  then  hee  kneeled  downe  on  his  knees,  and  prayed 
the  bishoppe  for  to  shrive  him  and  assoile  him  ;  and  then 
hee  besought  the  bishop  that  hee  might  bee  his  brother. 
Then  the  bishoppe  said,  "  I  will  gladly."  And  then  hee 
put  an  habite  upon  sir  Launcelot,  and  there  hee  served 
God  day  and  night  with  prayers  and  fastings. 

(The  History  of  King  Arthur  and  of  the  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table,  14.85^ 


A  Fair,   Brave   Sweetheart        \  i 
A  FAIR,  BRAVE  SWEETHEART 

(ANONYMOUS) 
''TPIS  of  Aucassin  and  Nicolete 

Who  would  list  to  the  good  lay 
Gladness  of  the  captive  grey  ? 
'Tis  how  two  young  lovers  met, 
Aucassin  and  Nicolete, 
Of  the  pains  the  lover  bore 
And  the  sorrow  he  outwore, 
For  the  goodness  and  the  grace, 
Of  his  love  so  fair  of  face. 

Sweet  the  song,  the  story  sweet, 
There  is  no  man  hearkens  it, 
No  man  living  'neath  the  sun, 
So  outwearied  so  foredone, 
Sick  and  woful,  worn  and  sad, 
But  is  healed,  but  is  glad 
'Tis  so  sweet. 

So  say  they,  speak  they,  tell  they  the  Tale. 

Here  one  singeth  : 

When  the  Count  Garin  doth  know 
That  his  child  would  ne'er  forego 
Love  of  her  that  loved  him  so, 
Nicolete,  the  bright  of  brow, 
In  a  dungeon  deep  below 
Childe  Aucassin  did  he  throw, 
Even  there  the  Childe  must  dwell 
In  a  dun-walled  marble  cell. 
There  he  waileth  in  his  woe 
Crying  thus  as  ye  shall  know, 


12      Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

"  Nicolete,  thou  lily  white, 
My  sweet  lady,  bright  of  brow, 
Sweeter  than  the  grape  art  thou, 
Sweeter  than  sack  posset  good 
In  a  cup  of  maple  wood  ! 
Was  it  not  but  yesterday  ? 
That  a  palmer  came  this  way, 
Out  of  Limousin  came  he, 
And  at  ease  he  might  not  be, 
For  a  passion  him  possessed 
That  upon  his  bed  he  lay, 
Lay  and  tossed,  and  knew  no  rest 
In  his  pain  discomforted. 
But  thou  earnest  by  the  bed, 
Where  he  tossed  amid  his  pain, 
Holding  high  thy  sweeping  train, 
And  thy  kirtle  of  ermine, 
And  thy  smock  of  linen  fine, 
Then  these  fair  white  limbs  of  thine 
Did  he  look  on,  and  it  fell 
That  the  palmer  straight  was  well, 
Straight  was  hale — and  comforted, 
And  he  rose  up  from  the  bed, 
And  went  back  to  his  own  place, 
Sound  and  strong,  and  full  of  face. 
My  sweet  lady,  lily  white, 
Sweet  thy  footfall,  sweet  thine  eyes, 
And  the  mirth  of  thy  replies. 
Sweet  thy  laughter,  sweet  thy  face, 
Sweet  thy  lips  and  sweet  thy  brow, 
And  the  touch  of  thine  embrace. 
Who  but  doth  in  thee  delight  ? 
I  for  love  of  thee  am  bound 
In  this  dungeon  underground, 
All  for  loving  thee  must  lie 
Here  where  loud  on  thee  I  cry, 
Here  for  loving  thee  must  die 
For  thee,  my  love." 

Then  say  they,  speak  they,  tell  they  the  Tale 


^4.    Fair^   Brave   Sweetheart        13 

Aucassin  was  cast  into  prison  as  ye  have  heard  tell,  and 
Nicolete,  of  her  part,  was  in  the  chamber.  Now  it  was 
summer  time,  the  month  of  May,  when  days  are  warm,  and 
long,  and  clear,  and  the  night  still  and  serene.  Nicolete 
lay  one  night  on  her  bed,  and  saw  the  moon  shine  clear 
through  a  window,  yea,  and  heard  the  nightingale  sing  in 
the  garden,  so  she  minded  her  of  Aucassin  her  lover  whom 
she  loved  so  well.  Then  fell  she  to  thoughts  of  Count 
Garin  de  Biaucaire,  that  hated  her  to  the  death  ;  therefore 
deemed  she  that  there  she  would  no  longer  abide,  for  that, 
if  she  were  told  of,  and  the  Count  knew  whereas  she  lay, 
an  ill  death  would  he  make  her  die.  Now  she  knew  that 
the  old  woman  slept  who  held  her  company.  Then  she 
arose,  and  clad  her  in  a  mantle  of  silk  she  had  by  her, 
very  goodly,  and  took  napkins,  and  sheets  of  the  bed,  and 
knotted  one  to  the  other,  and  made  therewith  a  cord  as  long 
as  she  might,  so  knitted  it  to  a  pillar  in  the  window,  and 
let  herself  slip  down  into  the  garden,  then  caught  up  her 
raiment  in  both  hands,  behind  and  before,  and  kilted  up  her 
kirtle,  because  of  the  dew  that  she  saw  lying  deep  on  the 
grass,  and  so  went  her  way  down  through  the  garden. 

Her  locks  were  yellow  and  curled,  her  eyes  blue  and 
smiling,  her  face  featly  fashioned,  the  nose  high  and  fairly 
set,  the  lips  more  red  than  cherry  or  rose  in  time  of  sum- 
mer, her  teeth  white  and  small ;  her  breasts  so  firm  that 
they  bore  up  the  folds  of  her  bodice  as  they  had  been  two 
apples ;  so  slim  was  she  in  the  waist  that  your  two  hands 
might  have  clipped  her,  and  the  daisy  flowers  that  brake 
beneath  her  as  she  went  tip-toe,  and  that  bent  above  her  in- 
step, seemed  black  against  her  feet,  so  white  was  the 
maiden.  She  came  to  the  postern  gate,  and  unbarred  it,  and 
went  out  through  the  streets  of  Biaucaire,  keeping  always 
on  the  shadowy  side,  for  the  moon  was  shining  right  clear, 
and  so  wandered  till  she  came  to  the  tower  where  her  lover 
lay.  The  tower  was  flanked  with  buttresses,  and  she 
cowered  under  one  of  them,  wrapped  in  her  mantle.  Then 
thrust  she  her  head  through  a  crevice  of  the  tower  that  was 
old  and  worn,  and  so  heard  she  Aucassin  wailing  within, 
and  making  dole  and  lament  for  the  sweet  lady  he  loved  so 
well.  And  when  she  had  listened  to  him  she  began  to  say  : 


14     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

Here  one  singeth  : 

Nicolete  the  bright  of  brow 
On  a  pillar  leanest  thou, 
All  Aucassin's  wail  doth  hear 
For  his  love  that  is  so  dear, 
Then  thou  spakest,  shrill  and  clear, 
"  Gentle  knight  withouten  fear 
Little  good  befalleth  thee, 
Little  help  of  sigh  or  tear, 
Ne'er  shalt  thou  have  joy  of  me. 
Never  shalt  thou  win  me ;  still 
Am  I  held  in  evil  will 
Of  thy  father  and  thy  kin, 
Therefore  must  I  cross  the  sea, 
And  another  land  must  win." 
Then  she  cut  her  curls  of  gold, 
Cast  them  in  the  dungeon  hold, 
Aucassin  doth  clasp  them  there, 
Kissed  the  curls  that  were  so  fair, 
Them  doth  in  the  bosom  bear, 
Then  he  wept,  even  as  of  old, 
All  for  his  love  ! 

Then  say  they,  speak  they,  tell  they  the  Tale : 

When  Aucassin  heard  Nicolete  say  that  she  would  pass 
into  a  far  country,  he  was  all  in  wrath. 

"  Fair  sweet  friend,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  shalt  not  go,  for 
then  wouldst  thou  be  my  death." 

"  Aucassin,"  she  said,  "  I  trow  thou  lovest  me  not  as 
much  as  thou  sayest,  but  I  love  thee  more  than  thou  lovest 
me." 

"  Ah,  fair  sweet  friend,"  said  Aucassin,  "  it  may  not  be 
that  thou  shouldst  love  me  even  as  I  love  thee.  Woman 
may  not  love  man  as  man  loves  woman,  for  woman's  love 
lies  in  the  glance  of  her  eye,  and  the  bud  of  her  breast,  and 
her  foot's  tip-toe,  but  the  love  of  a  man  is  in  his  heart 
planted,  whence  it  can  never  issue  forth  and  pass  away." 

Now  while  Aucassin  and  Nicolete  held  this  parley  to- 
gether, the  town's  guards  came  down  a  street,  with  swords 


Rosteiti. 


KING  RENE'S  HONEYMOON 


A  Fair,   Brave  Sweetheart        15 

drawn  beneath  their  cloaks,  for  the  Count  Garin  had 
charged  them  that  if  they  could  not  take  her  they  should 
slay  her.  But  the  sentinel  that  was  on  the  tower  saw  them 
coming,  and  heard  them  speaking  of  Nicolete  as  they  went, 
and  threatening  to  slay  her. 

"God!"  quoth  he,  "  this  were  a  great  pity  to  slay  so 
fair  a  maid  !  Right  great  charity  it  were  if  I  could  say 
aught  to  her,  and  they  perceive  it  not,  and  she  should  be  on 
her  guard  against  them,  for  if  they  slay  her,  then  were 
Aucassin,  my  damoiseau,  dead,  and  that  were  great  pity." 

Here  one  singeth  : 

Valiant  was  the  sentinel 
Courteous,  kind  and  practised  well, 
So  a  song  did  sing  and  tell 
Of  the  peril  that  befell. 
"Maiden  fair  that  lingerest  here, 
Gentle  maid  of  merry  cheer, 
Hair  of  gold,  and  eyes  as  clear 
As  the  water  in  a  mere, 
Thou  meseems,  has  spoken  word 
To  thy  lover  and  thy  lord, 
That  would  die  for  thee,  his  dear; 
Now  beware  the  ill  accord, 
Of  the  cloaked  men  of  the  sword, 
These  have  sworn  and  keep  their  word, 
They  will  put  thee  to  the  sword, 
Save  thou  take  heed  !  " 

Then  speak  they,  say  they,  tell  they  the  Tale : 

"  Ha  !  "  quoth  Nicolete,  "  be  the  soul  of  thy  father  and 
the  soul  of  thy  mother  in  the  rest  of  Paradise,  so  fairly  and 
so  courteously  hast  thou  spoken  me  !  Please  God,  I  will 
be  right  ware  of  them,  God  keep  me  out  of  their  hands." 

So  she  shrank  under  her  mantle  into  the  shadow  of  the 
pillar  till  they  had  passed  by,  and  then  took  she  farewell  of 
Aucassin,  and  so  fared  till  she  came  unto  the  castle  wall. 

{Aucassin  and  Nicolete.      Twelfth    Century;    translated  by 
Andrew  Lang,  London, 


16     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 


A   LOVE-TRYST 

PHILIPPE  DE  REIMES 

T  TNLESS  John  stays  till  night,  Blonde  cannot  foresee 
^  the  hour  that  she  can  talk  with  him  alone.  When 
day  had  gone  and  night  come,  there  were  only  he  and  she 
that  did  not  go  to  sleep.  John  and  Blonde  had  no  desire 
for  sleep ;  so  it  seemed  to  them  that  the  others  in  the  castle 
were  very  slow  in  getting  to  bed.  Five  times  they  arose 
from  their  beds  to  listen  whether  everybody  was  yet  asleep. 
When  they  heard  that  all  were  sleeping,  they  both  got  up 
without  making  any  fuss  or  noise.  John  came  to  his  lady 
who  was  perfectly  acquainted  with  all  the  ways.  They  did 
not  want  to  stay  where  they  were  lest  any  one  should  hear 
them  weeping ;  so  they  went  down  into  an  orchard  where 
there  were  many  beautiful  pear  trees.  It  was  a  lovely 
summer  night,  bright,  for  the  clear  moon  shone  upon  them 
and  they  could  see  without  any  trouble. 

Under  the  most  beautiful  pear  tree  in  the  world  John 
and  Blonde  have  halted.  They  have  sat  down,  both  weep- 
ing, for  their  hearts  are  very  full  of  anguish.  Side  by  side 
they  are  clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  mouth  to  mouth. 
Before  they  can  speak,  they  seal  their  love  with  five  hun- 
dred sweet  kisses ;  loving  ways  seem  very  sweet  to  them. 
The  eyes  and  face  of  either  was  traced  all  over  by  lips ; 
but  the  tears  that  fell  had  watered  their  sweet  faces.  At 
last  to  Blonde  spoke  John  thus : 

u  Sweet  lady  !  from  whom  comes  the  life  that  sustains 
my  heart ;  without  whom  I  do  not  wish  to  live  ( I  do  not 
want  to  and  I  will  not  bear  it ) ;  whose  graciousness  has  re- 
stored me  to  health,  great  solace  and  great  joy,  what  can  I 
do  or  say  regarding  the  great  grief  and  martyrdom  caused 
me  by  this  departure  ?  Were  you  glad  to  hear  the  news 
that  I  must  go  to  my  own  country  ?  Alas  !  I  am  so  upset 
that  I  know  not  what  to  do.  You  must  give  counsel,  or  I 
am  dead  and  foredone.  Everything  is  lost  to  me  at  one 


A  Love- Tryst  17 

stroke  if  you  do  not  please  to  find  a  way  by  which  I  may 
gain  comfort.  It  is  dangerous  for  me  to  stay,  and  too  cruel 
to  me  to  go  away  :  whether  I  go  or  stay,  my  heart  is  no 
longer  in  my  own  possession.  If  counsel  does  not  come  to 
me  from  you,  my  heart  receives  its  death  wound." 

"  Beautiful,  sweet  friend,"  Blonde  replies,  "  may  God 
guard  me,  for  the  news  of  this  departure  is  as  cruel  to  me 
as  to  you,  for  I  have  given  you  my  heart  for  as  long  as  I 
live,  at  all  costs ;  otherwise,  I  shall  never  be  happy.  This 
parting  that  I  see  we  must  bear  is  hard  for  me,  nothing 
could  show  the  great  grief  I  feel.  If  you  are  in  great  dis- 
may for  me,  so  am  I  for  you.  For  also,  God  hear  me  !  if 
you  have  placed  your  heart  in  me,  you  will  remain  my  true 
love;  and  all  that  I  have  said  and  done  to  you  in  word  and 
deed  I  will  do, — and  more  still.  I  will  leave  all  for  your 
love.  When  you  are  able  to  put  an  end  to  this  bitterness 
of  heart,  for  your  sake  I  will  pass  the  sea.  I  see  well  that 
there  can  be  no  other  culmination  of  our  love.  For  if  you 
remained  longer,  you  and  I  would  be  shamed.  Now  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  have  thought  by  which  our  grief  will  be 
healed  :  You  will  go  hence  to  your  own  land,  your  posses- 
sions to  demand  and  gain.  But  I  will  give  you  a  period, 
during  which  I  will  shed  many  tears  for  him  who  will  seem 
so  far  away  from  me ;  but  I  know  not  what  will  happen  to 
you.  If  all  goes  well  with  you,  spare  no  effort  to  come 
here  at  nightfall  one  year  from  to-day.  And  if  you  have 
only  managed  to  obtain  a  palfrey,  that  will  not  neigh  with 
fear,  take  me  up  on  your  saddle  behind  to  gallop  away. 
And  if  you  will  remember  when  you  must  come  to  me,  we 
will  quickly  take  our  journey  to  the  sea  and  stay  for  noth- 
ing on  the  strand.  For  we  should  soon  have  trouble  if  we 
were  followed  thither.  And  know  that  you  will  find  me 
right  under  this  pear  tree  at  the  fall  of  eve.  But  come 
from  outside,  so  that  nobody  may  see  the  plan,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden  by  a  door  that  shall  be  open  if  I  can  manage 
it.  By  that  way  you  may  enter  and  then  we  must  not 
tarry  :  I  will  go  with  you  to  France,  nevermore  to  part 
from  you.  But  now  you  will  think  of  keeping  the 
appointment  on  that  day  when  you  can  come,  for  until  that 
day  I  shall  have  no  certainty  of  this  plan.  Still  I  fear  the 


18      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

end  is  so  far  away.  My  heart  also  wonders  if  you  will 
want  to  marry  me ;  I  love  you  so  much,  with  my  whole 
heart,  that  till  the  day  that  I  have  set  none  shall  take  pos- 
session of  me.  But  now  think  of  working  towards  this 
end,  if  you  desire  to  manage  our  love  successfully. 

u  Lady,"  said  John,  "  many  thanks.  I  have  listened 
carefully  to  all  you  have  said.  If  God  please,  this  I  will 
do ;  I  will  not  leave  any  task  undone.  Your  term  seems 
too  long  to  me.  If  I  might  be  a  dove  every  time  I  de- 
sired, very  often  with  you  should  I  be ;  but  since  that  can- 
not be,  we  must  manage  otherwise.  Just  as  you  have 
commanded,  I  will  do,  without  any  alteration.  To  fail 
would  not  be  happy  for  me,  since  it  would  bring  me  to 
great  pain ;  for  that  will  be  the  day  of  great  comfort ;  to 
disobey  would  bring  about  my  death." 

After  these  words,  the  two  lovers  kissed  each  other  full 
sweetly  so  that  one  hundred  times  seemed  only  as  once  to 
them.  They  were  there  so  long  under  the  moon  that  they 
saw  the  dawn.  Now  they  cannot  stay  any  longer.  They 
are  greatly  disturbed  when  they  perceive  the  daylight. 

"  Oh  God  !  "  cried  John,  "  how  unwelcome  is  the  dawn  ! 
How  short  the  night  has  been  !  We  must  return  to  our 
chambers." 

"  You  have  said  it,  sweet  friend,  we  have  seen  the  last 
of  each  other;  there  is  nowhere  else  to  be  together." 
These,  who  were  so  devoted,  did  not  refrain  from  weeping. 
Their  hearts  were  tender  with  pity  when  it  came  to  the 
point  of  taking  leave,  and  John  said  :  "  Adieu,  dearest !  " 

His  beautiful  eyes  were  no  longer  bright,  but  dimmed 
with  tears.  And  Blonde  mingled  her  tears  with  his ;  and 
thus  weeping,  they  returned  holding  one  another's  hands  till 
they  reached  the  door  by  which  they  had  issued.  There 
was  no  song  of  farewell  to  which  they  kissed  each  other, 
but  in  sorrowful  apprehension  commended  each  other  to 
God's  keeping. 

Both  hastening  to  their  beds,  they  lay  down,  but  had  no 
hope  of  sleep.  They  had  enough  matter  for  reflection  re- 
garding their  love. 

(Blonde  of  Oxford,  about  1250.) 


and  Axixah  19 


AZIZ  AND  AZIZAH 

(ANONYMOUS) 

"IV/TY  father  was  a  wealthy  merchant  and  Allah  had 
vouchsafed  him  no  other  child  than  myself,  but  I 
had  a  cousin,  Azizah,  and  we  twain  were  brought  up  in  one 
house.  When  I  reached  man's  estate,  my  father  said  to 
my  mother :  "  We  will  draw  up  the  contract  of  marriage 
between  Aziz  and  Azizah."  So,  for  the  appointed  day, 
they  washed  the  marble  floor  and  set  tapestry  about  the 
house  and  hung  the  walls  with  cloth  of  gold.  They  made 
sweetmeats  and  sugared  dishes  and  my  mother  sent  me  to 
the  bath  and  gave  me  new  clothes  of  the  richest,  which, 
when  I  donned  them,  scented  the  wayside  with  their  fra- 
grance. On  my  way  home  for  the  signing  of  the  contract, 
the  heat  oppressed  me ;  so  I  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  and 
was  about  to  wipe  my  face,  when  suddenly  there  fell  upon 
me  a  white  handkerchief,  softer  to  the  touch  than  the 
morning  breeze.  Raising  my  head,  my  eyes  met  those  of 
a  lady  looking  out  of  a  lattice  of  brass,  and  my  tongue 
faileth  to  describe  her  beauty.  She  made  certain  signs  to 
me  and  went  her  ways ;  and  fire  broke  out  in  me.  After 
vainly  waiting  till  sundown,  I  opened  the  handkerchief  and 
found  a  little  scroll  of  tender  verses  that  redoubled  my 
yearning.  On  reaching  home  far  into  the  night,  I  found 
the  daughter  of  my  uncle  sitting  in  tears ;  but  as  soon  as 
she  saw  me  she  wiped  away  the  drops  and  came  and  re- 
moved my  walking-dress,  asking  the  reason  of  my  absence 
and  telling  me  how  the  assemblage  of  Emirs  and  merchants 
had  dispersed,  despairing  of  my  attendance  and  of  the 
rage  of  my  father,  ending  by  asking  what  had  befallen. 
I  told  her  all  that  had  passed,  and  she  took  the  scroll 
and  read,  while  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  When  I 
begged  her  to  help  me  in  this  my  sore  calamity,  she  said : 
"  O  son  of  my  uncle,  if  thou  soughtest  my  eye,  I  cannot 
but  aid  thee  to  thy  desire  and  aid  her  also  to  her  desire ; 


20      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

for  she  is  whelmed  in  passion  for  thee  even  as  thou  for 
her."  And  she  interpreted  the  signs  the  lady  had  made.  So 
I  laid  my  head  in  my  cousin's  lap,  whilst  she  comforted  me 
and  said :  "  Be  resolute  and  of  good  heart  and  hope  for 
the  best !  "  After  two  days,  she  changed  my  clothes  and 
perfumed  me  and  sent  me  forth  to  the  tryst.  So  I  sat  on 
the  bench,  and  presently  the  wicket  opened  and  the  lady 
appeared  and  made  other  signs.  When  I  returned  home  I 
found  the  daughter  of  my  uncle  shedding  tears,  with  her 
head  propt  in  her  hand ;  but,  when  she  saw  me,  she  came 
and  served  me  as  before.  When  she  had  interpreted  the 
signs,  I  wept,  and  she  said  :  "  Be  of  good  cheer  and  strong 
heart ;  of  a  truth  others  suffer  love  for  years  and  endure 
with  constancy  the  ardour  of  passion,  whilst  thou  hast  but 
a  week  to  wait ;  why,  then,  this  impatience  ? "  Thereupon 
she  tried  to  cheer  me  with  comfortable  talk  and  brought  me 
food,  but  I  could  not  eat  though  I  tried.  I  abstained  from 
meat  and  drink,  and  estranged  myself  from  the  solace  of 
sleep,  for  I  had  never  known  the  passion  of  love  before. 
So  I  fell  sick,  and  my  cousin  also  sickened  on  my  account ; 
but  she  would  relate  to  me  by  way  of  consolation  stories 
of  love  every  night  till  I  fell  asleep  ;  and,  whenever  I  awoke, 
I  found  her  wakeful  for  my  sake,  with  tears  running  down 
her  cheeks.  When  the  time  came,  she  rose  and  bathed  me 
and  sent  me  forth  ;  but  I  saw  no  sign,  nor  heard  one  word, 
nor  knew  any  news.  At  last  I  arose  and  walked  home, 
reeling  like  a  drunken  man,  and  found  my  cousin  Azizah 
standing  with  one  hand  grasping  a  peg  in  the  wall  and  the 
other  on  her  breast;  and  she  was  sighing  and  singing  sad 
couplets  of  her  unrequited  love.  When  she  saw  me,  she 
turned  and  wiped  away  her  tears  and  my  tears  with  her 
sleeve.  Then  she  smiled  in  my  face  and  said  :  "  O  my 
cousin,  Allah  grant  thee  enjoyment  of  what  He  hath  given 
thee !  Why  didst  thou  not  stay  with  thy  beloved  ? " 
When  I  heard  her  words,  in  my  cruel  rage  I  struck  her 
and  she  fell  with  her  brow  against  the  edge  of  the  raised 
pavement,  and  the  blood  spurted ;  but  she  was  silent  and 
did  not  utter  a  single  sound.  Presently  she  rose  and 
bandaged  the  cut,  and  wiped  up  the  blood  from  the  carpet, 
and  it  was  as  if  nothing  had  been.  Then  she  came  up  to 


%  and  Axixah  21 


me,  and  smiling  in  my  face,  said  with  gentle  voice  :  "  By 
Allah,  O  son  of  my  uncle,  I  spake  not  these  words  to 
mock  at  thee  or  her  !  But  I  was  troubled  with  an  ache  in 
my  head  and  was  minded  to  be  blooded,  but  now  thou  hast 
eased  my  head  and  lightened  my  brow  ;  so  tell  me  what 
hath  befallen  thee  to-day."  When  she  heard  my  words 
she  wept  and  said  :  "  O  son  of  my  uncle,  I  rejoice  at  the 
good  tidings  of  thy  desire  being  fulfilled.  Of  a  truth  this 
is  a  sign  of  acceptance.  To-morrow  repair  to  her  at  the 
old  place,  for  indeed  thy  gladness  is  near  and  the  end  of  thy 
sadness  is  at  hand."  And  she  vainly  sought  to  comfort  me. 
She  brought  me  food  which  I  kicked  away,  and  scattered 
the  contents  of  the  saucers.  Then  Azizah  cried  :  "  By 
Allah,  O  son  of  my  uncle,  these  be  in  very  deed  the  signs 
of  love  !  "  And  the  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks  as 
she  gathered  up  the  fragments.  Then  she  took  seat  and 
talked  to  me  while  I  prayed  Allah  to  hasten  the  dawn.  At 
last  I  went  to  seek  her,  and  lo  !  the  wicket  opened  and  she 
put  out  her  head  laughing.  Then  she  made  secret  signals 
and  went  away,  leaving  me  distracted.  My  heart  was  riven 
with  longing,  so  I  returned  home  heavy-hearted  and  found 
the  daughter  of  my  uncle  sitting  with  her  face  to  the  wall, 
for  her  heart  was  burning  with  grief  and  jealousy  ;  albeit 
her  affection  forbade  her  to  acquaint  me  with  what  she  suf- 
fered with  passion  and  pining.  She  had  two  bandages  on 
her  head,  one  on  account  of  the  cut  and  the  other  on  ac- 
count of  the  pain  from  stress  of  weeping.  When  she  saw 
me,  she  came  to  me  in  tender  silence  to  learn  how  I  had 
fared.  Again  she  interpreted  the  signals,  that  promised 
happiness  at  nightfall  ;  but  I  cried  :  "  How  long  wilt  thou 
promise  me  and  I  go  to  her,  but  gain  not  my  desire  ?  "  But 
she  comforted  me  and  assured  me  of  joy.  And  when  night 
was  come  she  wept  sore  and  kissed  me,  and  I  sought  the  garden 
appointed.  I  found  the  door  open  ;  and  seeing  a  light  in 
the  distance,  I  came  to  a  great  pavilion  vaulted  over  with 
ivory  and  ebony  and  a  lamp  hung  from  the  dome.  The 
floor  was  spread  with  silken  carpets  embroidered  in  gold  and 
silver,  and  under  the  lamp  stood  a  gold  candelabrum.  In 
mid-pavilion  was  a  fountain  adorned  with  all  manner  of 
figures,  and  by  its  side  stood  a  table  covered  with  a  silken 


22      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

napkin,  and  on  it  a  great  porcelain  bottle  full  of  wine,  with 
a  cup  of  crystal  inlaid  with  gold.  Near  these  was  a  large 
covered  silver  tray,  and  when  I  uncovered  it  I  found  therein 
fruits  of  every  kind  disposed  amongst  an  infinite  variety  of 
sweet-scented  flowers  and  all  sorts  of  fragrant  herbs.  I 

O 

was  charmed  with  the  place,  albeit  I  found  not  there  one 
living  soul  to  watch  or  ward.  So  I  sat  down  to  await  the 
coming  of  my  heart's  beloved,  but  the  first  hour  of  the 
night  passed,  and  the  second,  and  the  third,  and  still  she 
came  not.  Then  hunger  grew  sore  upon  me,  for  it  was 
long  since  I  had  tasted  food  by  reason  of  the  violence  of 
my  love ;  and  when  I  saw  that  my  cousin  had  rightly  inter- 
preted my  beloved's  signs  my  mind  was  set  at  rest,  and  I 
felt  the  pangs  of  hunger.  So  I  went  to  the  table  and  raised 
the  cover  and  found  a  china  dish  containing  chickens  red- 
dened with  roasting  and  seasoned  with  spices,  round  which 
were  saucers  containing  sweetmeats,  conserve  of  pome- 
granate seeds,  almond-pastry  and  honey  fritters,  all  part 
sweet  and  part  sour.  So  I  ate  heartily,  and  presently  I 
waxed  too  drowsy  to  keep  awake ;  so  I  laid  my  head  on  a 
cushion  after  washing  my  hands  and  sleep  overcame  me.  I 
woke  not  till  the  sun's  heat  scorched  me,  for  I  had  not  slept 
for  days.  When  I  awoke  I  found  on  my  breast  a  piece  of 
salt  and  a  bit  of  charcoal.  The  place  was  bare  and  no  one 
was  to  be  seen.  I  was  perplexed  thereat,  and  mourned, 
and  went  home  in  sorrow.  As  I  entered,  my  cousin  was 
beating  her  hands  on  her  bosom  and  weeping  tears  like  rain- 
shedding  clouds  and  singing  verses  of  passionate  longing. 
When  she  saw  me,  she  rose  in  haste  and  wiped  away  her 
tears,  and  addressed  me  with  soft  speech,  saying  :  "  O  son 
of  my  uncle,  verily  Allah  hath  been  gracious  to  thee  in  thy 
love,  for  that  she  whom  thou  lovest  loveth  thee,  whilst  I 
pass  my  time  in  weeping  and  bewailing  my  severance  from 
thee  who  blamest  me  and  chidest  me  ;  but  may  Allah  not 
punish  thee  for  my  sake ! "  Thereupon  she  smiled  re- 
proachfully and  caressed  me.  When  I  had  told  her  all  that 
had  passed  she  said :  "  Verily,  my  heart  is  full  of  pain ; 
but  may  he  not  live  who  would  hurt  thy  heart.  Indeed 
this  woman  maketh  herself  inordinately  dear  and  difficult  to 
thee.  The  meaning  of  the  salt  is  that  thou  wast  drowned 


and  Axizah  23 


in  sleep  like  insipid  food,  sleep  is  undue  to  a  lover,  and 
therefore  thy  love  is  a  lie.  However,  it  is  her  love  for  thee 
that  lieth  ;  for  she  saw  thee  asleep  and  roused  thee  not. 
As  for  the  charcoal,  it  means  Allah  blacken  thy  face  for 
thou  makest  a  lying  pretence  of  love,  and  hast  no  object  in 
life  beyond  eating  and  drinking  and  sleeping  !  Such  is 
the  interpretation  of  her  signs,  and  may  Allah  deliver 
thee  from  her  !  "  Then  I  wept  sore  and  cried  :  "  Tell 
me  how  to  act,  and  have  pity  on  me,  so  may  Allah  have 
pity  on  thee  !  else  I  shall  die."  As  my  cousin  loved  me 
with  very  great  love  she  pressed  me  to  her  bosom  and,  lay- 
ing me  on  the  bed,  chafed  my  feet  till  drowsiness  overcame 
me  and  I  was  drowned  in  sleep  ;  then  she  took  a  fan,  and 
seated  herself  at  my  head  and  wept  till  her  clothes  were  wet 
with  tears.  When  I  awoke,  she  wiped  away  the  drops  and 
brought  me  some  food.  I  refused  it,  but  she  insisted  :  so  I 
thwarted  her  not.  Then  she  washed  my  hands  and 
sprinkled  me  with  rose-water,  and  I  sat  with  her  awhile. 
When  the  darkness  had  closed  in,  she  dressed  me  and  said  : 
"  O  son  of  my  uncle,  watch  through  the  whole  night  and 
sleep  not  ;  for  she  will  not  come  to  thee  this  tide  till  the 
last  of  the  dark  hours,  and,  Allah  willing,  thou  shalt  have 
thy  desire."  So  I  repaired  to  the  pavilion  in  the  garden, 
and  remained  awake  till  I  was  weary  with  long  watching. 
Finally  I  ate  and  was  becoming  heavy  with  sleep  when  be- 
hold !  a  light  approached  from  afar.  Soon  she  came  with 
ten  damsels  in  whose  midst  she  was  like  the  full  moon 
among  the  stars.  When  she  saw  me,  she  laughed  and 
said  :  "  How  is  it  that  thou  art  awake  ?  Forasmuch  as 
thou  hast  watched  through  the  night  I  know  that  thou  art 
a  true  lover."  Then  she  turned  and  dismissed  her  women. 
When  I  left  her  after  much  loving  talk  and  feasting,  I 
went  home  joyful.  When  I  reached  our  street  I  heard 
sounds  of  wailing,  and  asking  the  cause  I  was  told  : 
"  Azizah,  we  found  her  dead  behind  the  door."  I  entered 
the  house,  and  when  my  mother  saw  me  she  said  :  "  Her 
death  lieth  heavy  on  thy  neck,  and  may  Allah  not  acquit 
thee  of  her  blood.  Verily  she  told  me  nought,  but  kept 
her  secret  till  she  died  of  her  love-longings  for  thee;  but 
when  she  died  I  was  with  her  and  she  opened  her  eyes  and 


24     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

said  to  me  :  l  O  wife  of  my  uncle,  may  Allah  hold  thy 
son  guiltless  of  my  blood  and  punish  him  not  for  what  he 
hath  done  by  me  !  And  now  Allah  transporteth  me  from 
the  house  of  the  world  which  is  perishable  to  the  house 
of  the  other  world  which  is  eternal.'  As  I  questioned 
her  of  the  cause  of  her  illness,  she  made  me  no  answer ; 
but  she  smiled  and  said,  '  O  wife  of  my  uncle,  bid  thy  son, 
whenever  he  would  go  whither  he  goeth  every  day,  repeat 
these  two  saws  at  his  going  away  : — Faith  is  fair ;  Un- 
faith  is  foul !  For  this  is  my  tender  affection  for  him,  that 
I  am  solicitous  concerning  him  during  my  lifetime  and 
after  my  death.' ' 

(From  The  Thousand  Nights  and  One  Night.) 


Strudivick, 


A   Victim   of  Love  25 


(ANONYMOUS) 

A  DAUGHTER  of  the  great  Barbarosso  became  pas- 
sionately attached  to  Launcelot  of  the  Lake ;  but  so 
far  from  returning  her  love,  he  bestowed  all  his  affections 
on  the  fair  Queen  Ginevra.  To  such  a  degree  did  her 
unhappy  attachment  arise,  that  she  at  length  fell  a  victim  to 
it,  and  died,  leaving  a  bequest,  that  as  soon  as  her  soul 
had  departed,  her  body  should  be  transported  on  board  a 
barge  fitted  up  for  the  purpose,  with  a  rich  couch,  and 
adorned  with  velvet  stuffs,  and  precious  stones  and  orna- 
ments ;  and  thus  arrayed  in  her  proudest  attire,  with  a 
bright  golden  crown  upon  her  brows,  she  was  to  be  borne 
alone  to  the  place  of  residence  of  her  beloved.  Beneath 
her  silver  zone  was  found  a  letter  to  the  following  tenor ; 
but  we  must  first  mention  what  ought  to  precede  the  letter 
itself.  Everything  was  exactly  fulfilled  as  she  had  appointed, 
respecting  the  vessel  without  a  sail  or  oars,  helmsman,  or 
hands  to  guide  her ;  and  so,  fraught  with  its  lifeless  freight, 
it  was  launched  upon  the  open  waves.  Thus  she  was 
borne  along  by  the  winds,  which  conveyed  her  direct  to 
Camalot,  where  the  barge  rested  of  itself  upon  the  banks. 

A  rumour  immediately  spread  through  the  court,  and  a 
vast  train  of  barons  and  cavaliers  ran  out  of  the  palace, 
followed  soon  by  King  Arthur  himself.  They  stood  mute 
with  astonishment,  on  observing  the  strange  vessel  there, 
without  a  voice  or  a  hand  to  stir  her  out  of  the  dead  calm 
in  which  she  lay.  The  King  was  the  first  to  set  his  foot 
upon  her  side,  and  he  there  beheld  the  gentle  lady  sur- 
rounded with  the  pomp  of  death.  He  too  first  unclasped 
the  zone,  and  cast  his  eye  over  the  letter,  directed —  "  To 
all  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  greeting,  from  the 
poor  lady  of  Scalot,  who  invokes  long  health  and  fortune 
for  the  proudest  lances  in  the  world.  Do  they  wish  to 
learn  how  I  am  thus  fearfully  brought  before  them?  let 


26     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

my  last  hand  witness  that  it  was,  at  once,  for  the  sake  of 
the  noblest  and  vilest  of  the  cavaliers  of  the  land — for  the 
proud  Knight,  Launcelot  of  the  Lake.  For  neither  tears 
nor  sighs  of  mine  availed  with  him,  to  have  compassion  on 
my  love.  And  thus,  alas,  you  behold  me  dead, — fallen  a 
victim  only  for  loving  too  true." 

(Cento  Novelle  Antiche,  Thirteenth  Century ;  translated  by 
Thomas  Roscoe,  London,  z8j6.) 


A  Love   Letter  27 


A  LOVE  LETTER 

JOHN  LYLY 

Philautus,  be  not  thou  the  bye  word  of  the  common 
people,  rather  suffer  death  by  silence,  than  derision 
by  writing. 

I,  but  it  is  better  to  reveale  thy  love,  then  conceale  it, 
thou  knowest  not  what  bitter  poyson  lyeth  in  sweet  words, 
remember  Pfellus,  who  by  experience  hath  tryed,  that  in 
love  one  letter  is  of  more  force,  then  a  thousand  lookes. 
If  they  lyke  writings  they  read  them  often,  if  dislyke  them 
runne  them  over  once,  and  this  is  certeine  that  she  that 
readeth  such  toyes,  will  also  aunswere  them.  Onely  this 
be  secret  on  conveyaunce,  which  is  the  thing  they  chieflyest 
desire.  Then  write  Philautus  write,  he  that  feareth  every 
bush  must  never  goe  a  birding,  he  that  casteth  all  doubts, 
shal  never  be  resolved  in  any  thing.  And  this  assure  thy 
selfe  that  be  thy  letter  never  so  rude  and  barbarous,  shee  will 
reade  it,  and  be  it  never  so  loving  she  will  not  shewe  it, 
which  weare  a  thing  contrary  to  hir  honor,  and  the  next 
way  to  call  hir  honestie  into  question.  For  thou  hast 
heard,  yea  and  thy  selfe  knowest,  that  Ladyes  that  vaunt 
of  their  Lovers,  or  shewe  their  letters,  are  accompted  in 
Italy  counterfait,  and  in  England  they  are  not  thought 
currant. 

Thus  Philautus  determined,  hab,  nab,  to  sende  his  letters, 
flattering  him-selfe  with  the  successe  which  he  to  him-selfe 
faigned :  and  after  long  musing,  he  thus  beganne  to  frame 
the  minister  of  his  love. 

To  THE  FAYREST,  CAMILLA. 

Hard  is  the  choyce  fayre  Ladye,  when  one  is  compelled 
eyther  by  silence  to  dye  with  griefe,  or  by  writing  to  live 
with  shame.  But  so  sweete  is  the  desire  of  lyfe  and  so 
sharpe  are  the  passions  of  love,  that  I  am  enforced  to  pre- 
ferre  an  unseemely  suite,  before  an  untimely  death.  Loth 


28      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

have  I  bin  to  speake,  and  in  dispayre  to  speede,  the  one 
proceeding  of  mine  own  cowardise,  the  other  of  thy 
crueltie.  If  thou  enquire  my  name,  I  am  the  same  Philautus, 
which  for  thy  sake  of  late  came  disguised  in  a  Maske, 
pleading  custome  for  a  priviledge,  and  curtesie  for  a  pardon. 
The  same  Philautus  which  then  in  secret  tearmes  coloured 
his  love,  and  now  with  bitter  teares  bewrayes  it.  If  thou 
nothing  esteeme  the  brynish  water  that  falleth  from  mine 
eyes,  I  would  thou  couldst  see  the  warme  bloud  that  drop- 
peth  from  my  heart.  Oftentimes  I  have  beene  in  thy 
company,  where  easily  thou  mightest  have  perceived  my 
wanne  cheekes,  my  hollow  eies,  my  scalding  sighes,  my 
trembling  tongue,  to  forshew  yat  then,  which  I  confesse 
now.  Then  consider  with  thy  self  Camilla,  the  plight  I  am 
in  by  desire,  and  the  perill  I  am  likely  to  fall  into  by 
deniall. 

To  recount  the  sorrowes  I  sustaine,  or  the  service  I  have 
vowed,  would  rather  breede  in  thee  an  admiration,  then  a 
belief:  only  this  I  adde  for  the  time,  which  the  ende  shall 
trye  for  a  trueth,  that  if  thy  aunswer  be  sharpe,  my  life  wil 
be  short,  so  farre  love  hath  wrought  in  my  pyning  and 
almost  consumed  bodye,  that  thou  onely  mayst  breath  into 
me  a  new  life,  or  bereave  mee  of  the  olde. 

Thou  art  to  weigh,  not  how  long  I  have  loved  thee,  but 
how  faythfully,  neyther  to  examine  the  worthynesse  of  my 
person,  but  the  extremities  of  my  passions :  so  preferring 
my  desarts  before  the  length  of  time,  and  my  disease,  be- 
fore the  greatnes  of  my  byrth,  thou  wilt  eyther  yeelde  with 
equitie,  or  deny  with  reason,  of  both  the  which,  although 
the  greatest  be  on  my  side,  yet  the  least  shall  not  dislike 
me :  for  yat  I  have  alwayes  found  in  thee  a  minde  neyther 
repugnant  to  right,  nor  void  of  reason.  If  thou  wouldst 
but  permit  me  to  talke  with  thee,  or  by  writing  suffer  me  at 
large  to  discourse  with  thee,  I  doubt  not  but  yat,  both  the 
cause  of  my  love  would  be  beleeved,  and  the  extremitie  re- 
warded, both  proceeding  of  thy  beautie  and  vertue,  the  one 
able  to  allure,  the  other  ready  to  pittie.  Thou  must 
thinke  that  God  hath  not  bestowed  those  rare  giftes  upon 
thee  to  kyll  those  that  are  caught,  but  to  cure  them.  Those 
that  are  stung  with  the  Scorpion,  are  healed  with  the 


A  Love   Letter  29 

Scorpion,  the  fire  that  burneth,  taketh  away  the  heate  of  the 
burn,  the  Spider  Phalangium  that  poysoneth,  doth  with  her 
skinne  make  a  plaster  for  poyson,  and  shall  thy  beautie 
which  is  of  force  to  winne  all  with  love,  be  of  the  crueltie 
to  wound  any  with  death  ?  No  Camilla,  I  take  no  lesse 
delight  in  thy  fayre  face,  then  pleasure  in  thy  good  con- 
ditions, assuring  my  selfe  that  for  affection  without  lust, 
thou  wilt  not  render  malyce  with-out  cause. 

I  commit  my  care  to  thy  consideration  expecting  thy 
Letter  eyther  as  a  CulHse  to  preserve,  or  as  a  sworde  todis- 
troy,  eyther  as  Antidotum  or  as  Auconitum  :  If  thou  delude 
mee,  thou  shalt  not  long  triumphe  over  mee  lyving,  and 
small  will  thy  glory  be  when  I  am  dead.  And  I  ende. 

Thine  ever,  though  he  be  never  thine.      Philautus. 

This  Letter  beeing  coyned,  hee  studyed  how  hee  myght 
conveie  it,  knowing  it  to  be  no  lesse  perrilous  to  trust  those 
hee  knewe  not  in  so  weightye  a  case,  then  dyffycult  for  him- 
selfe  to  have  opportunitie  to  delyver  it  in  so  suspicious  a 
company  :  At  the  last  taking  out  of  his  closette  a  fayre 
Pomegranet,  and  pullyng  all  the  kernelles  out  of  it,  hee 
wrapped  his  Letter  in  it,  closing  the  toppe  of  it  finely,  that  it 
could  not  be  perceyved,  whether  nature  agayne  hadde  knitte 
it  of  purpose  to  further  him,  or  his  arte  had  overcome  na- 
ture's cunning.  This  Pomegranet  hee  tooke,  beeing  him- 
selfe  both  messenger  of  his  Letter,  and  the  mayster,  and  in- 
sinuating him-selfe  into  the  companie  of  the  Gentlewoemen, 
amonge  whom  was  also  Camilla,  hee  was  welcommed  as 
well  for  that  he  had  beene  long  tyme  absent,  as  for  that 
hee  was  at  all  tymes  pleasaunt,  much  good  communication 
there  was  touching  manye  matters,  which  heere  to  insert 
were  neyther  convenient,  seeing  it  doth  not  concern  the 
Hystorie,  nor  expedient,  seeing  it  is  nothing  to  the  dely- 
verie  of  Philautus  Letter. 

(Eupbues  and  his  England,  London, 


30      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 
A  ROUNDELAY  OF  LOVE 

GEORGE  PEELE 

Enter  PARIS  and  CENONE. 
DdR.     CEnone,  while  l  we  bin  disposed  to  walk, 

Tell  me  what  shall  be  subject  of  our  talk  ? 
Thou  hast  a  sort2  of  pretty  tales  in  store, 
Dare  say  no  nymph  in  Ida  woods  hath  more : 
Again,  beside  thy  sweet  alluring  face, 
In  telling  them  thou  hast  a  special  grace. 
Then,  prithee,  sweet,  afford  some  pretty  thing, 
Some  toy  that  from  thy  pleasant  wit  doth  spring. 

(En.     Paris,  my  heart's  contentment  and  my  choice, 
Use  thou  thy  pipe  and  I  will  use  my  voice; 
So  shall  thy  just  request  not  be  denied, 
And  time  well  spent  and  both  be  satisfied. 

Par.     Well,  gentle  nymph,  although  thou  do  me  wrong, 
That  can  ne  tune  my  pipe  unto  a  song, 
Me  list  this  once,  QEnone,  for  thy  sake, 
This  idle  task  on  me  to  undertake. 

[  They  sit  under  a  tree  together. 

(En.     And  whereon,  then,  shall  be  my  roundelay  ? 
For  thou  hast  heard  my  store  long  since,  doth  say; 
How  Saturn  did  divide  his  kingdom  tho3 
To  Jove,  to  Neptune,  and  to  Dis  below ; 
How  mighty  men  made  foul  successless  war 
Against  the  gods  and  state  of  Jupiter; 
How  Phorcys'  imp  that  was  so  trick 4  and  fair, 
That  tangled  Neptune  in  her  golden  hair, 
Became  a  Gorgon  for  her  lewd  misdeed, — 
A  pretty  fable,  Paris,  for  to  read, 
A  piece  of  cunning,  trust  me,  for  the  nones, 
That  wealth  and  beauty  alter  men  to  stones ; 
How  Salmacis,  resembling  idleness, 
Turns  men  to  women  all  through  wantonness ; 

1  Until.  'Collection.  *  Then.  ••Trim. 


A  Roundelay  of  Love  31 

How  Pluto  wrought  Queen  Ceres  daughter  thence, 

And  what  did  follow  of  that  love-offence; 

Of  Daphne  turned  into  the  laurel-tree, 

That  shows  a  mirror  of  virginity  ; 

How  fair  Narcissus  tooting  '  on  his  shade, 

Reproves  disdain,  and  tells  how  form  doth  vade  ; 2 

How  cunning  Philomela's  needle  tells 

What  force  in  love,  what  wit  in  sorrow  dwells  ; 

What  pains  unhappy  souls  abide  in  hell, 

They  say  because  on  earth  they  lived  not  well, — 

Ixion's  wheel,  proud  Tantal's  pining  woe, 

Prometheus'  torment,  and  a  many  mo, 

How  Danaus'  daughters  ply  their  endless  task, 

What  toil  the  toil  of  Sisyphus  doth  ask  : 

All  these  are  old  and  known  I  know,  and  yet,  if  thou  wilt 

have  any, 
Choose  some  of  these,  for,  trust  me,  else  CEnone  hath  not 

many. 
Par.     Nay,  what  thou  wilt  :   but  sith  my  cunning  not 

compares  with  thine, 

Begin  some  toy  that  I  can  play  upon  this  pipe  of  mine. 
(En.     There  is  a  pretty  sonnet,  then,  we  call  it  Cupid's 

Curse, 
"  They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new,  pray  gods  they 

change  for  worse  !  " 

The  note  is  fine  and  quick  withal,  the  ditty  will  agree, 
Paris,  with  that  same  vow  of  thine  upon  our  poplar-tree. 
Par.     No  better  thing  :  begin  it,  then  :  CEnone  thou  shalt 

see 

Our  music  figure  of  the  love  that  grows  'twixt  thee  and 
me. 
\They  sing;  and  while  CENONE  singeth,  he  pipeth. 

Incipit  CENONE. 
(En.     Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be  ; 
The  fairest  shepherd  on  our  green, 

A  love  for  any  lady. 
Par.       Fair  and  fair  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be  ; 
1  Poring.  *  Fade. 


32      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 

And  for  no  other  lady. 
(En.     My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay, 

As  fresh  as  bin  the  flowers  in  May, 
And  of  my  love  my  roundelay, 

My  merry  merry  merry  roundelay, 
Concludes  with  Cupid's  curse, — 
They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 

Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse. 
Ambo  simul.     They  that  do  change,  etc. 
(En.  Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

Par.  Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

Thy  love  is  fair,  etc. 

(En.         My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing, 
My  love  can  make  a  pretty  thing, 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry  merry  roundelays, 
Amen  to  Cupid's  curse, — 
They  that  do  change,  etc. 
Par.          They  that  do  change,  etc. 
Ambo.        Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

[Finis  Cam ce nee. 

\Tbe  song  being  ended,  they  rise,  and  CENONE  speaks. 
(En.     Sweet  shepherd,  for  CEnone's  sake  be  cunning  in 

this  song, 
And  keep  thy  love,  and  love  thy  choice,  or  else  thou  dost 

her  wrong. 
Par.     My  vow  is  made  and  witnessed,  the  poplar  will 

not  start, 

Nor  shall  the  nymph  CEnone's  love  forth  from  my  breath- 
ing heart. 

I  will  go  bring  thee  on  thy  way,  my  flock  are  here  behind, 
And  I  will  have  a  lover's  fee ;  they  say,  unkiss'd  unkind. 

[Exeunt. 
(The  Arraignment  of  Paris,  1584). 


Britomart  and  Artegall          33 


BRITOMART  AND  ARTEGALL 

EDMUND  SPENSER 


Britomart  with  sharp  avizefull  eye 
Beheld  the  lovely  face  of  Artegall 
Temp'red  with  sternness  and  stout  majesty, 
She  gan  eftsoones  it  to  her  mind  to  call 
To  be  the  same  which,  in  her  father's  hall, 
Long  since  in  that  enchanted  glass  she  saw  : 
Therewith  her  wrathful  courage  gan  appal, 
And  haughty  spirits  meekly  to  adaw, 
That  her  enchaunced  hand  she  down  can  soft  withdraw. 


Yet  she  it  forced  to  have  again  upheld, 
As  feigning  choler  which  was  turn'd  to  cold  : 
But  ever  when  his  visage  she  beheld, 
Her  hand  fell  down,  and  would  no  longer  hold 
The  wrathful  weapon  gainst  his  count'nance  bold : 
But,  when  in  vain  to  fight  she  oft  assay'd, 
She  arm'd  her  tongue,  and  thought  at  him  to  scold  : 
Nathless  her  tongue  not  to  her  will  obey'd, 
But   brought   forth   speeches   mild   when  she  would   have 
missaid. 


But  Scudamore,  now  woxen  inly  glad 

That  all  his  jealous  fear  he  false  had  found, 

And  how  that  hag  his  love  abused  had 

With  breach  of  faith  and  loyalty  unsound, 

The  which  long  time  his  grieved  heart  did  wound, 

Him  thus  bespake  :  u  Certes,  Sir  Artegall, 

I  joy  to  see  you  lout  so  low  on  ground, 

And  now  become  to  live  a  lady's  thrall, 

That  whylome  in  your  mind  wont  to  despise  them  all." 


34     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

Soon  as  she  heard  the  name  of  Artegall, 

Her  heart  did  leap,  and  all  her  heart  strings  tremble, 

For  sudden  joy  and  secret  fear  withal ; 

And  all  her  vital  pow'rs  with  motion  nimble 

To  succour  it,  themselves  gan  there  assemble ; 

That  by  the  swift  recourse  of  flushing  blood 

Right  plain  appear'd,  though  she  it  would  dissemble, 

And  feigned  still  her  former  angry  mood, 

Thinking  to  hide  the  depth  by  troubling  of  the  flood. 

When  Glauce  thus  gan  wisely  all  upknit : 

"  Ye  gentle  knights,  whom  fortune  here  hath  brought 

To  be  spectators  of  this  uncouth  fit, 

Which  secret  fate  hath  in  this  lady  wrought 

Against  the  course  of  kind,  ne  marvel  nought ; 

Ne  thenceforth  fear  the  thing  that  hitherto 

Hath  troubled  both  your  minds  with  idle  thought, 

Fearing  least  she  your  loves  away  should  woo ; 

Feared  in  vain,  sith  means,  ye  see,  there  wants  thereto. 

And  you,  Sir  Artegall,  the  Savage  Knight, 

Henceforth  may  not  disdain  that  woman's  hand 

Hath  conquer'd  you  anew  in  second  fight : 

For  whylome  they  have  conquer'd  sea  and  land, 

And  heaven  itself,  that  nought  may  them  withstand : 

Ne  henceforth  be  rebellious  unto  love, 

That  is  the  crown  of  knighthood  and  the  band 

Of  noble  minds  derived  from  above, 

Which,  being  knit  with  virtue,  never  will  remove. 

And  you,  fair,  lady  knight,  my  dearest  dame, 
Relent  the  rigour  of  your  wrathful  will, 
Whose  fire  were  better  turn'd  to  other  flame ; 
And,  wiping  out  remembrance  of  all  ill, 
Grant  him  your  grace  ;  but  so  that  he  fulfil 
The  penance  which  ye  shall  to  him  empart : 
For  lovers  heaven  must  pass  by  sorrow's  hell." 
Thereat  full  inly  blushed  Britomart; 
But  Artegall,  close-smiling,  joy'd  in  secret  heart. 


Eritomart  and  Artegall          35 

Yet  durst  he  not  make  love  so  suddenly, 

Ne  think  th'  affection  of  her  heart  to  draw 

From  one  to  other  so  quite  contrary  : 

Besides,  her  modest  countenance  he  saw 

So  goodly  grave,  and  full  of  princely  awe, 

That  it  his  ranging  fancy  did  refrain, 

And  looser  thoughts  to  lawful  bounds  withdraw; 

Whereby  the  passion  grew  more  fierce  and  fain, 

Like  to  a  stubborn  steed  whom  strong  hand  would  restrain. 


In  all  which  time  Sir  Artegall  made  way 

Unto  the  love  of  noble  Britomart, 

And  with  meek  service  and  much  suit  did  lay 

Continual  siege  unto  her  gentle  heart; 

Which,  being  whylome  lanced  with  lovely  dart, 

More  eath  was  new  impression  to  receive : 

However  she  her  pain'd  with  womanish  art 

To  hide  her  wound,  that  none  might  it  perceive  : 

Vain  is  the  art  that  seeks  itself  for  to  deceive. 

So  well  he  woo'd  her,  and  so  well  he  wrought  her 

With  fair  entreaty  and  sweet  blandishment, 

That  at  the  length  unto  a  bay  he  brought  her, 

So  as  she  to  his  speeches  was  content 

To  lend  an  ear,  and  softly  to  relent. 

At  last,  through  many  vows  which  forth  he  pour'd, 

And  many  oaths,  she  yielded  her  consent 

To  be  his  love  and  take  him  for  her  lord, 

Till  they  with  marriage  meet  might  finish  that  accord. 

Tho,  when  they  had  long  time  there  taken  rest, 

Sir  Artegall,  who  all  this  while  was  bound 

Upon  a  hard  adventure  yet  in  quest 

Fit  time  for  him  thence  to  depart  it  found, 

To  follow  that  which  he  did  long  propound ; 

And  unto  her  his  conge  came  to  take  : 

But  her  therewith  full  sore  displeased  he  found, 

And  loth  to  leave  her  late  betrothed  make  ; 

Her  dearest  love  full  loth  so  shortly  to  forsake. 


36     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Yet  he  with  strong  persuasions  her  assuaged, 

And  won  her  will  to  suffer  him  depart ; 

For  which  his  faith  with  her  he  fast  engaged, 

And  thousand  vows  from  bottom  of  his  heart, 

That,  all  so  soon  as  he  by  wit  or  art 

Could  that  achieve  whereto  he  did  aspire, 

He  unto  her  would  speedily  revert : 

No  longer  space  thereto  he  did  desire, 

But  till  the  horned  moon  three  courses  did  expire. 

With  which  she  for  the  present  was  appeased, 

And  yielded  leave,  however  malcontent 

She  inly  were  and  in  her  mind  displeased. 

So,  early  on  the  morrow  next,  he  went 

Forth  on  his  way  to  which  he  was  ybent ; 

Ne  wight  him  to  attend,  or  way  to  guide, 

As  whylome  was  the  custom  ancient 

Mongst  knights  when  on  adventures  they  did  ride 

Save  that  she  algates  him  awhile  accompanied. 

And  by  the  way  she  sundry  purpose  found 
Of  this  or  that,  the  time  for  to  delay, 
And  of  the  perils  whereto  he  was  bound, 
The  fear  whereof  seem'd  much  her  to  affray : 
But  all  she  did  was  but  to  wear  out  day. 
Full  oftentimes  she  leave  of  him  did  take ; 
And  eft  again  devised  somewhat  to  say, 
Which  she  forgot,  whereby  excuse  to  make : 
So  loth  she  was  his  company  for  to  forsake. 

At  last  when  all  her  speeches  she  had  spent, 

And  new  occasion  fail'd  her  more  to  find, 

She  left  him  to  his  fortunes'  government, 

And  back  returned  with  right  heavy  mind ; 

To  Scudamore,  whom  she  had  left  behind  ; 

With  whom  she  went  to  seek  fair  Amoret, 

Her  second  care,  though  in  another  kind : 

For  virtue's  only  sake,  which  doth  beget 

True  love  and  faithful  friendship,  she  by  her  did  set. 

(The  Faerie  ®)ueene,  London, 


Romeo   and  Juliet  37 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Capulefs  Garden.     Enter  ROMEO. 

1DOM.     He  jests  at  scars  that  never  felt  a  wound. — 

[JULIET  appears  above  at  a  window. 
But,  soft !  what  light  through  yonder  window  breaks  ? 
It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun  ! — 
Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 
That  thou  her  maid  art  far  more  fair  than  she  : 
Be  not  her  maid,  since  she  is  envious ; 
Her  vestal  livery  is  but  sick  and  green, 
And  none  but  fools  do  wear  it;  cast  it  off. — 
It  is  my  lady ;  O,  it  is  my  love  ! 
O,  that  she  knew  she  were  ! — 
She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing  :  what  of  that  ? 
Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it. — 
I  am  too  bold,  'tis  not  to  me  she  speaks  : 
Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head  ? 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those  stars, 
As  daylight  doth  a  lamp  ;  her  eyes  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright 
That  birds  would  sing,  and  think  it  were  not  night. — 
See  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ! 
O,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch  that  cheek ! 

Jul  Ah  me  ! 

Rom.  She  speaks  : — 

O,  speak  again,  bright  angel !   for  thou  art 
As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white-upturned  wondering  eyes 


38     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Of  mortals  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

Jul.     O  Romeo,  Romeo  !  wherefore  art  thou  Romeo  ? 
Deny  thy  father  and  refuse  thy  name ; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  I'll  no  longer  be  a  Capulet. 

Rom.  [aside].     Shall  I  hear  more,  or  shall  I  speak  at  this  ? 

yul.     'Tis  but  thy  name  that  is  my  enemy ; — 
Thou  art  thyself  though,  not  a  Montague. 
What's  Montague  ?     It  is  nor  hand,  nor  foot, 
Nor  arm,  nor  face,  nor  any  other  part 
Belonging  to  a  man.     O,  be  some  other  name  ! 
What's  in  a  name  ?  that  which  we  call  a  rose, 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet ; 
So  Romeo  would,  were  he  not  Romeo  call'd, 
Retain  that  dear  perfection  which  he  owes 
Without  that  title  : — Romeo,  doff  thy  name ; 
And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 
Take  all  myself. 

Rom.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word : 

Call  me  but  love,  and  I'll  be  new  baptiz'd ; 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo. 

Jul.     What  man  art  thou,  that,  thus  bescreen'd  in  night, 
So  stumblest  on  my  counsel  ? 

Rom.  By  a  name 

I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am : 
My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 
Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee ; 
Had  I  it  written,  I  would  tear  the  word. 

Jul.     My  ears  have  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred  words 
Of  that  tongue's  utterance,  yet  I  know  the  sound  ; 
Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague  ? 

Rom.     Neither,  fair  saint,  if  either  thee  dislike. 

Jul.     How  cam'st  thou  hither,  tell  me,  and  wherefore  ? 
The  orchard  walls  are  high  and  hard  to  climb ; 
And  the  place  death,  considering  who  thou  art, 
If  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee  here. 

Rom.     With  love's  light  wings  did  I  o'er-perch   these 
walls  ; 


Romeo  and  Juliet  39 

For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out : 

And  what  love  can  do,  that  dares  love  attempt ; 

Therefore  thy  kinsmen  are  no  let  to  me. 

Jul.     If  they  do  see  thee  they  will  murder  thee. 

Rom.     Alack,  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords  :  look  thou  but  sweet, 
And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity. 

Jul.     I  would  not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee  here. 

Rom.     1  have  night's  cloak  to  hide  me  from  their  sight ; 
And,  but  thou  love  me,  let  them  find  me  here  : 
My  life  were  better  ended  by  their  hate 
Than  death  prorogued  wanting  of  thy  love. 

Jul.     By  whose  direction  found'st  thou  out  this  place  ? 

Rom.     By  love,  who  first  did  prompt  me  to  inquire  ; 
He  lent  me  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes. 
I  am  no  pilot ;  yet,  wert  thou  as  far 
As  that  vast  shore  wash'd  with  the  furthest  sea, 
I  would  adventure  for  such  merchandise. 

Jul.     Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face, 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke  :  but  farewell  compliment ! 
Dost  thou  love  me  ?  I  know  thou  wilt  say — Ay ; 
And  I  will  take  thy  word  :  yet,  if  thou  swear'st, 
Thou  mayst  prove  false;  at  lovers'  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     O  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  : 
Or,  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo ;  but  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond  ; 
And  therefore  thou  mayst  think  my  'haviour  light : 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  over-heard'st,  ere  I  was  'ware, 
My  true  love's  passion  :  therefore  pardon  me ; 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 


40      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Rom.     Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear, 
That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops, — 

Jul.     O,  swear  not  by  the  moon,  the  inconstant  moon, 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 

Rom.     What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 

Jul.  Do  not  swear  at  all ; 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self, 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I'll  believe  thee. 

Rom.  If  my  heart's  dear  love, — 

Jul.     Well,  do  not  swear  :  although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvis'd,  too  sudden ; 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be 
Ere  one  can  say,  It  lightens.     Sweet,  good-night ! 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Good-night,  good-night !  as  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart  as  that  within  my  breast ! 

Rom.     O,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied  ? 

Jul.     What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to-night  ? 

Rom.     The   exchange    of   thy   love's    faithful   vow  for 
mine. 

Jul.     I  gave  thee  mine  before  thou  didst  request  it : 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Rom.     Wouldst  thou  withdraw  it  ?  for  what   purpose, 
love  ? 

Jul.     But  to  be  frank,  and  give  it  thee  again. 
And  yet  I  wish  but  for  the  thing  I  have  : 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
My  love  as  deep ;  the  more  I  give  to  thee 
The  more  I  have,  for  both  are  infinite. 

[NURSE  calls  within. 

I  hear  some  noise  within ;  dear  love,  adieu  ! — 
Anon,  good  nurse  ! — Sweet  Montague,  be  true. 
Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again.  [Exit. 

Rom.     O  blessed,  blessed  night !  I  am  afeard, 
Being  in  night,  all  this  is  but  a  dream, 
Too  flattering-sweet  to  be  substantial. 


Dicksee. 


ROMEO   AND   JULIET 


Romeo   and  Juliet  41 

Re-enter  JULIET  above. 

Jul.     Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and  good-night  indeed. 
If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honourable, 
Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow, 
By  one  that  I'll  procure  to  come  to  thee, 
Where  and  what  time  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite ; 
And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lay, 
And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  throughout  the  world. 

Nurse,  [within].     Madam  ! 

Jul.     I  come  anon. — But  if  thou  mean'st  not  well, 
I  do  beseech  thee, — 

Nurse.  \within~\.     Madam  ! 

Jul.  By  and  by,  I  come  : — 

To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief: 
To-morrow  will  I  send. 

Rom.     So  thrive  my  soul, — 

Jul.     A  thousand  times  good-night !  [Exit. 

Rom.     A  thousand  times  the  worse,  to  want  thy  light. — 
Love  goes  toward  love  as  school-boys  from  their  books ; 
But  love  from  love,  toward  school  with  heavy  looks. 

[Retiring  slowly. 
Re-enter  JULIET  above. 

Jul.     Hist !     Romeo,  hist  ! — O  for  a  falconer's  voice, 
To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  back  again  ! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud  ; 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where  Echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name. 

Rom.  It  is  my  soul  that  calls  upon  my  name  : 
How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears  ! 

Jul.     Romeo ! 

Rom.  My  dear  ? 

Jul.  At  what  o'clock  to-morrow 

Shall  I  send  to  thee  ? 

Rom.  At  the  hour  of  nine. 

Jul.     I  will  not  fail  :  'tis  twenty  years  till  then. 
I  have  forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back. 

Rom.     Let  me  stand  here  till  thou  remember  it. 


42      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Jul.     I  shall  forget,  to  have  thee  still  stand  there, 
Remembering  how  I  love  thy  company. 

Rom.     And  I'll  still  stay,  to  have  thee  still  forget, 
Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this. 

Jul.     'Tis  almost  morning  ;  I  would  have  thee  gone  : 
And  yet  no  further  than  a  wanton's  bird  ; 
Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand, 
Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  gyves, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  again, 
So  loving-jealous  of  his  liberty. 

Rom.     I  would  I  were  thy  bird. 

Jul.  Sweet,  so  would  I : 

Yet  I  should  kill  thee  with  much  cherishing. 
Good-night,  good-night !  parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow 
That  I  shall  say  good-night  till  it  be  morrow.  [Exit. 

Rom.     Sleep    dwell    upon    thine    eyes,    peace    in    thy 

breast ! — 

Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest 
Hence  will  I  to  my  ghostly  father's  cell, 
His  help  to  crave  and  my  dear  hap  to  tell.  [Exit. 

(Romeo  and  Juliet,  about 


Dido  and  jJLneas  43 


DIDO  AND  .ENEAS 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

Enter  DIDO  and  ANNA 

O  Anna,  run  unto  the  water-side  ! 
They  say  Tineas'  men  are  going  aboard ; 
It  may  be,  he  will  steal  away  with  them : 
Stay  not  to  answer  me  ;  run,  Anna,  run  !  [Exit  ANNA. 

0  foolish  Trojans  that  would  steal  from  hence, 
And  let  not  Dido  understand  their  drift  ! 

1  would  have  given  Achates  store  of  gold, 
And  Ilioneus  gum  and  Libyan  spice  ; 

And  common  soldiers  rich  embroidered  coats, 
And  silver  whistles  to  control  the  winds, 
Which  Circe  sent  Sichaeus  when  he  lived  : 
Unworthy  are  they  of  a  queen's  reward. 
See  where  they  come  :   how  might  I  do  to  chide  ? 

Re-enter   ANNA,  with   /ENEAS,   ACHATES,   CLOANTHUS, 
ILIONEUS,  SERGESTUS,  and  CARTHAGINIAN  LORDS. 

Anna.     'Twas  time  to  run  ;  /Eneas  had  been  gone  ; 
The  sails  were  hoising  up,  and  he  aboard. 

Dido.     Is  this  thy  love  to  me  ? 

JEn.     O  princely  Dido,  give  me  leave  to  speak ! 
I  went  to  take  my  farewell  of  Achates. 

Dido.     How  haps  Achates  bid  me  not  farewell  ? 

Ach.     Because  I  feared  your  grace  would  keep  me  here. 

Dido.     To  rid  thee  of  that  doubt,  aboard  again  : 
I  charge  thee  put  to  sea,  and  stay  not  here. 

Ach.     Then  let  ./Eneas  go  aboard  with  us. 

Dido.     Get  you  aboard  ;  /Eneas  means  to  stay. 

/En.     The  sea  is  rough,  the  winds  blow  to  the  shore. 

Dido.     O  false  /Eneas  !   now  the  sea  is  rough  ; 
But  when  you  were  aboard,  'twas  calm  enough  : 
Thou  and  Achates  meant  to  sail  away. 


44     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

jEn.     Hath  not  the  Carthage  queen  mine  only  son  ? 
Thinks  Dido  I  will  go  and  leave  him  here  ? 

Dido.     ./Eneas,  pardon  me ;  for  I  forgot 
That  young  Ascanius  lay  with  me  this  night ; 
Love  made  me  jealous  :  but,  to  make  amends, 
Wear  the  imperial  crown  of  Libya, 

[Giving  him  her  crown  and  sceptre. 
Sway  thou  the  Punic  sceptre  in  my  stead, 
And  punish  me,  ./Eneas,  for  this  crime. 

/En.     This  kiss  shall  be  fair  Dido's  punishment. 

Dido.     O,  how  a  crown  becomes  ./Eneas'  head  ! 
Stay  here,  ./Eneas,  and  command  as  king. 

JEn.     How  vain  am  I  to  wear  this  diadem, 
And  bear  this  golden  sceptre  in  my  hand  ! 
A  burgonet  of  steel,  and  not  a  crown, 
A  sword,  and  not  a  sceptre,  fits  ./Eneas. 

Dido.     O,  keep  them  still,  and  let  me  gaze  my  fill ! 
Now  looks  ./Eneas  like  immortal  Jove  : 
O,  where  is  Ganymede,  to  hold  his  cup, 
And  Mercury,  to  fly  for  what  he  calls  ? 
Ten  thousand  Cupids  hover  in  the  air, 
And  fan  it  in  ./Eneas'  lovely  face  ! 
O,  that  the  clouds  were  here  wherein  thou  fled'st, 
That  thou  and  I  unseen  might  sport  ourselves ! 
Heaven,  envious  of  our  joys,  is  waxen  pale ; 
And  when  we  whisper,  then  the  stars  fall  down, 
To  be  partakers  of  our  honey  talk. 

jEn.     O  Dido,  patroness  of  all  our  lives, 
When  I  leave  thee,  death  be  my  punishment ! 
Swell,  raging  seas  !   frown,  wayward  Destinies ! 
Blow,  winds  !  threaten,  ye  rocks  and  sandy  shelves ! 
This  is  the  harbour  that  ./Eneas  seeks : 
Let's  see  what  tempests  can  annoy  me  now. 

Dido.     Not  all  the  world  can  take  thee  from  mine  arms. 

Re-enter  FIRST  LORD,  with  ATTENDANTS  carrying  tack- 
ling^ etc. 

First  Lord.     Your  nurse  is  gone  with  young  Ascanius  : 
And  here's  ./Eneas'  tackling,  oars,  and  sails. 

Dido.     Are  these  the  sails  that,  in  despite  of  me, 


Dido  and  jtfLneas  45 

Pack'd  with  the  winds  to  bear  ^Eneas  hence  ? 

I'll  hang  ye  in  the  chamber  where  I  lie ; 

Drive,  if  you  can,  my  house  to  Italy  : 

I'll  set  the  casement  open,  that  the  winds 

May  enter  in,  and  once  again  conspire 

Against  the  life  of  me,  poor  Carthage  queen: 

But,  though  ye  go,  he  stays  in  Carthage  still ; 

And  let  rich  Carthage  fleet  upon  the  seas, 

So  I  may  have  ./Eneas  in  mine  arms. 

Is  this  the  wood  that  grew  in  Carthage  plains, 

And  would  be  toiling  in  the  watery  billows, 

To  rob  their  mistress  of  her  Trojan  guest  ? 

O  cursed  tree,  hadst  thou  but  wit  or  sense, 

To  measure  how  I  prize  Eneas'  love, 

Thou  wouldst  have  leapt  from  out  the  sailors'  hands, 

And  told  me  that  /Eneas  meant  to  go  ! 

And  yet  I  blame  thee  not ;  thou  art  but  wood. 

The  water,  which  our  poets  term  a  nymph, 

Why  did  it  suffer  thee  to  touch  her  breast, 

And  shrunk  not  back,  knowing  my  love  was  there  ? 

The  water  is  an  element,  no  nymph. 

Why  should  I  blame  /Eneas  for  his  flight? 

O  Dido,  blame  not  him,  but  break  his  oars  ! 

These  were  the  instruments  that  launched  him  forth. 

There's  not  so  much  as  this  base  tackling  too, 

But  dares  to  heap  up  sorrow  to  my  heart : 

Was  it  not  you  that  noised  up  these  sails  ? 

Why  burst  you  not,  and  they  fell  in  the  seas  ? 

For  this  will  Dido  tie  ye  full  of  knots, 

And  shear  ye  all  asunder  with  her  hands. 

Now  serve  to  chastise  shipboys  for  their  faults ; 

Ye  shall  no  more  offend  the  Carthage  queen. 

Now,  let  him  hang  my  favours  on  his  masts, 

And  see  if  those  will  serve  instead  of  sails ; 

For  tackling,  let  him  take  the  chains  of  gold, 

Which  I  bestow'd  upon  his  followers  ; 

Instead  of  oars,  let  him  use  his  hands, 

And  swim  to  Italy.     I'll  keep  these  sure. — 

Come,  bear  them  in.  \JLxeunt. 


46     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

Enter  DIDO. 

Dido.     I  fear  I  saw  Eneas'  little  son 
Let  by  Achates  to  the  Trojan  fleet. 
If  it  be  so,  his  father  means  to  fly  : — 

But  here  he  is  ;  now,  Dido,  try  thy  wit. —  \_Aside. 

./Eneas,  wherefore  go  thy  men  aboard  ? 
Why  are  thy  ships  new  rigged  ?  or  to  what  end, 
Launched  from  the  haven,  lie  they  in  the  road  ? 
Pardon  me,  though  I  ask;  love  makes  me  ask. 

£n.     O,  pardon  me,  if  I  resolve  thee  why  ! 
./Eneas  will  not  feign  with  his  dear  love. 
I  must  from  hence :  this  day,  swift  Mercury, 
When  I  was  laying  a  platform  for  these  walls, 
Sent  from  his  father  Jove,  appear'd  to  me, 
And  in  his  name  rebuk'd  me  bitterly 
For  lingering  here,  neglecting  Italy. 

Dido.     But  yet  ./Eneas  will  not  leave  his  love. 

Mn.     I  am  commanded  by  immortal  Jove 
To  leave  this  town  and  pass  to  Italy  j 
And  therefore  must  of  force. 

Dido.     These  words  proceed  not  from  ./Eneas'  heart. 

jEn.     Not  from  my  heart,  for  I  can  hardly  go  ; 
And  yet  I  may  not  stay.     Dido,  farewell. 

Dido.     Farewell !  is  this  the  mends  for  Dido's  love  ? 
Do  Trojans  use  to  quit  their  lovers  thus  ? 
Fare  well  may  Dido,  so  ./Eneas  stay ; 
I  die,  if  my  ./Eneas  say  farewell. 

jEn.     Then  let  me  go,  and  never  say  farewell: 
Let  me  go  :  farewell :  I  must  from  hence. 

Dido.     These  words  are  poison  to  poor  Dido's  soul ; 
O,  speak  like  my  ^neas,  like  my  love ! 
Why  look'st  thou  towards  the  sea  ?  the  time  hath  been 
When  Dido's  beauty  chain'd  thine  eyes  to  her. 
Am  I  less  fair  than  when  thou  saw'st  me  first  ? 
O,  then,  ./Eneas,  'tis  for  grief  of  thee  ! 
Say  thou  wilt  stay  in  Carthage  with  thy  queen 
And  Dido's  beauty  will  return  again. 
./Eneas,  say,  how  canst  thou  take  thy  leave  ? 
Wilt  thou  kiss  Dido  ?     O,  thy  lips  have  sworn 
To  stay  with  Dido  !  canst  thou  take  her  hand  ? 


Dido  and  &neas  47 


Thy  hand  and  mine  have  plighted  mutual  faith  ; 
Therefore,  unkind  /Eneas,  must  thou  say, 
"  Then  let  me  go,  and  never  say  farewell  ?  " 

/En.     O  queen  of  Catharge,  wert  thou  ugly-black, 
/Eneas  could  not  choose  but  hold  thee  dear  ! 
Yet  must  he  not  gainsay  the  god's  behest. 

Dido.     The  gods  !    what  gods   be  those    that  seek  my 

death  ? 

Wherein  have  I  offended  Jupiter, 
That  he  should  take  /Eneas  from  mine  arms  ? 
O  no  !  the  gods  weigh  not  what  lovers  do  : 
It  is  /Eneas  calls  /Eneas  hence  ; 
And  woful  Dido,  by  these  blubber'd  cheeks, 
By  this  right  hand,  and  by  our  spousal  rites, 
Desires  /Eneas  to  remain  with  her; 
Si  l  bene  quid  de  te  merui,  fuit  aut  tib'i  quidquam 
Dulce  meum,  miserere  domus  labentis,  et  istam, 
Oro,  si  quis  adbuc  precibus  locus,  exue  mentem. 

£n.     Desine  1  meque  tuts  incendere  teque  querelis  ; 
Italiam  non  sponte  sequor. 

Dido.     Hast  thou  forgot  how  many  neighbour  kings 
Were  up  in  arms,  for  making  thee  my  love  ? 
How  Carthage  did  rebel,  larbas  storm, 
And  all  the  world  calls  me  a  second  Helen, 
For  being  entangled  by  a  stranger's  looks  ? 
So  thou  wouldst  prove  as  true  as  Paris  did, 
Would,  as  fair  Troy  was,  Carthage  might  be  sack'd, 
And  I  be  called  a  second  Helena  ! 
Had  I  a  son  by  thee,  the  grief  were  less, 
That  I  might  see  /Eneas  in  his  face  : 
Now  if  thou  go'st,  what  canst  thou  leave  behind, 
But  rather  will  augment  than  ease  my  woe  ? 

£n.     In  vain,  my  love,  thou  spend'st  thy  fainting  breath  : 
If  words  might  move  me,  I  were  overcome. 

Dido.     And  wilt  thou  not  be  mov'd  with  Dido's  words  ? 
Thy  mother  was  no  goddess,  perjured  man, 
Nor  Dardanus  the  author  of  thy  stock  ; 
But  thou  art  sprung  from  Scythian  Caucasus, 
And  tigers  of  Hyrcania  gave  thee  suck.  — 
i  Virgil  JEn.  iv.  317,  365-7. 


48     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Ah,  foolish  Dido,  to  forbear  this  long  !  — 
Wast  thou  not  wrecked  upon  this  Libyan  shore, 
And  cam'st  to  Dido  like  a  fisher  swain  ? 
Repaired  I  not  thy  ships,  made  thee  a  king, 
And  all  thy  needy  followers  noblemen  ? 

0  serpent,  that  came  creeping  from  the  shore, 
And  I  for  pity  harbour'd  in  my  bosom, 

Wilt  thou  now  slay  me  with  thy  venomed  sting, 
And  hiss  at  Dido  for  preserving  thee  ? 
Go,  go,  and  spare  not ;  seek  out  Italy  : 

1  hope  that  that  which  love  forbids  me  do, 
The  rocks  and  sea-gulls  will  perform  at  large, 
And  thou  shalt  perish  in  the  billows'  ways 
To  whom  poor  Dido  doth  bequeath  revenge : 
Ay,  traitor !  and  the  waves  shall  cast  thee  up, 
Where  thou  and  false  Achates  first  set  foot ; 
Which  if  it  chance,  I'll  give  thee  burial, 
And  weep  upon  your  lifeless  carcasses, 
Though  thou  nor  he  will  pity  me  a  whit. 

Why  starest  thou  in  my  face  ?     If  thou  wilt  stay, 

Leap  in  mine  arms ;  mine  arms  are  open  wide ; 

If  not,  turn  from  me,  and  I'll  turn  from  thee ; 

For  though  thou  hast  the  heart  to  say  farewell, 

I  have  not  power  to  stay  thee.  [Exit  /ENEAS. 

Is  he  gone  ? 

Ay,  but  he'll  come  again  ;  he  cannot  go ; 
He  loves  me  too-too  well  to  serve  me  so : 
Yet  he  that  in  my  sight  would  not  relent, 
Will,  being  absent,  be  obdurate  still. 
By  this,  is  he  got  to  the  water-side ; 
And,  see,  the  sailors,  take  him  by  the  hand ; 
But  he  shrinks  back;  and  now  remembering  me, 
Returns  amain  :  welcome,  welcome,  my  love  ! 
But  where's  ./Eneas  ?  ah,  he's  gone,  he's  gone  ! 

Enter  ANNA. 

Anna,     What  means  my  sister,  thus  to  rave  and  cry  ? 

Dido.     O  Anna,  my  /Eneas  is  aboard, 
And,  leaving  me,  will  sail  to  Italy  ! 
Once  didst  thou  go,  and  he  came  back  again  : 


A  ngelica  Kaufmann. 


ARIADNE    FORSAKEN 


Dido  and  ALneas  49 

Now  bring  him  back  and  thou  shalt  be  a  queen, 
And  I  will  live  a  private  life  with  him. 

Anna.     Wicked  ./Eneas  ! 

Dido.     Call  him  not  wicked,  sister :  speak  him  fair, 
And  look  upon  him  with  a  mermaid's  eye; 
Tell  him,  I  never  vow'd  at  Aulis  gulf 
The  desolation  of  his  native  Troy, 
Nor  sent  a  thousand  ships  unto  the  walls, 
Nor  ever  violated  faith  to  him ; 
Request  him,  gently,  Anna,  to  return : 
I  crave  but  this, — he  stay  a  tide  or  two, 
That  I  may  learn  to  bear  it  patiently ; 
If  he  depart  thus  suddenly,  I  die. 
Run,  Anna,  run ;  stay  not  to  answer  me. 

Anna.     I  go,  fair  sister :  heavens  grant  good  success  ! 

[Exit. 

(The  Tragedy  of  Dido,  £>ueen  of  Carthage, 


50      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


CONCEALED  LOVE 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace. 

r\UKE.  [Music. 

*^     Come  hither,  boy.     If  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it  remember  me  : 
For,  such  as  I  am,  all  true  lovers  are ; 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  belov'd. — How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Vio.     It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  throned. 

Duke.     Thou  dost  speak  masterly  : 
My  life  upon't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stayed  upon  some  favour  that  it  loves; 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.     What  kind  of  woman  is't  ? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.     She  is  not  worth  thee  then.    What  years,  i'faith  ? 

Vio.     About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.     Too  old,  by  heaven.     Let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself;  so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn 
Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.     Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent : 
For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower, 
Being  once  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Vio.     And  so  they  are  :  alas,  that  they  are  so ; 
To  die  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow ! 


Concealed  Love  51 

Duke.  Once  more,  Cesario, 

Get  thee  to  yon  same  sovereign  cruelty . 
Tell  her  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands; 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune ; 
But  'tis  that  miracle  and  queen  of  gems 
That  Nature  pranks  her  in  attracts  my  soul. 

Fio.     But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.     I  cannot  be  so  answer'd. 

Fio.  'Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say  that  some  lady,  as  perhaps  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia :  you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so.     Must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 

Duke.     There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart :  no  woman's  heart 
So  big  to  hold  so  much ;  they  lack  retention. 
Alas,  their  love  may  be  called  appetite, — 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, — 
That  suffer  surfeit,  cloyment  and  revolt; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 
And  can  digest  as  much  :   make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Fio.  Ay,  but  I  know, — 

Duke.     What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Fio.     Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe : 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what's  her  history  ? 

Fio.     A  blank,  my  lord.     She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek :   she  pined  in  thought ; 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed  ? 


52      Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more ;  but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.     But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 

Vio.     I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  too ; — and  yet  I  know  not. — 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? . 

Duke.  Ay,  that's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste :  give  her  this  jewel ;  say 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  delay.  \_Exeunt. 

(Twelfth  Night, 


The  Proud,  Disdainful  Shepherdess   53 


THE  PROUD,  DISDAINFUL  SHEPHERDESS 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

The  Forest  of  Arden.     Enter  CORIN. 

R.     Mistress  and  master  you  have  oft  inquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complain'd  of  love, 
Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 

CeL  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.     If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd, 
Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain, 
Go  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
If  you  will  remark  it. 

Ros.  O,  come,  let  us  remove : 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love. 
Bring  us  unto  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
I'll  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play.  \JLxeunt. 


Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  SILVIUS  and  PHEBE. 

Sil.     Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me ;  do  not,  Phebe  : 
Say  that  you  love  me  not ;  but  say  not  so 
In  bitterness.     The  common  executioner, 
Whose  heart  the  accustom'd  sight  of  death  makes  hard, 
Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck 
But  first  begs  pardon.     Will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  dies  and  lives  by  bloody  drops  ? 

Enter  ROSALIND,  CELIA,  and  CORIN,  at  a  distance. 

Phe.     I  would  not  be  the  executioner: 
I  fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee. 
Thou  telPst  me  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye : 


54     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

'Tis  pretty,  sure,  and  very  probable, 

That  eyes, — that  are  the  frail'st  and  softest  things, 

Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies, — 

Should  be  called  tyrants,  butchers,  murderers  ! 

Now  I  do  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart ; 

And  if  mine  eyes  can  wound,  now  let  them  kill  thee  : 

Now  counterfeit  to  swoon ;  why,  now  fall  down  ; 

Or,  if  thou  canst  not,  O,  for  shame,  for  shame, 

Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murderers. 

Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made  in  thee : 

Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 

Some  scar  of  it ;  lean  but  upon  a  rush, 

The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure 

Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps ;  but  now  mine  eyes, 

Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not ; 

Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 

That  can  do  hurt. 

Sil.  O  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever, — as  that  ever  may  be  near, — 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy, 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 

Phe.  But  till  that  time 

Come  not  thou  near  me ;  and  when  that  time  comes 
Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks,  pity  me  not ; 
As  till  that  time  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Ros.  [advancing].     And  why,  I  pray  you  ?     Who  might 

be  your  mother, 

That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once, 
Over  the  wretched  ?     What  though  you  have  no  beauty, — 
As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed, — 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  ? 
Why,  what  means  this  ?     Why  do  you  look  on  me  ? 
I  see  no  more  in  you  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work  : — Od's  my  little  life, 
I  think  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too  ! — 
No,  faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it; 
'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair, 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream, 


The  Proud,  Disdainful  Shepherdess   55 

That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship. — 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her, 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain  ? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man 
Than  she  a  woman.     'Tis  such  fools  as  you 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favour'd  children : 
'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you  that  flatters  her ; 
And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper 
Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her; — 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself;  down  on  your  knees, 
And  thank  heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love : 
For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear, — 
Sell  when  you  can ;  you  are  not  for  all  markets : 
Cry  the  man  mercy  ;  love  him ;  take  his  offer : 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer. 
So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd ; — fare  you  well. 

Phe.     Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you  chide  a  year  together : 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide  than  this  man  woo. 

Ros.  He's  fallen  in  love  with  her  foulness,  and  she'll 
fall  in  love  with  my  anger.  If  it  be  so,  as  fast  as  she  an- 
swers thee  with  frowning  looks,  I'll  sauce  her  with  bitter 
words. — Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

Phe.     For  no  ill-will  I  bear  you. 

Ros.     I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me, 
For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine : 
Besides,  I  like  you  not. — If  you  will  know  my  house, 
'Tis  at  the  tuft  of  olives  here  hard  by. — 
Will  you  go,  sister  ? — Shepherd,  ply  her  hard. — 
Come,  sister. — Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better, 
And  be  not  proud ;  though  all  the  world  could  see, 
None  could  be  so  abus'd  in  sight  as  he. 
Come  to  our  flock.  [Exeunt  Ros.,  CEL.,  and  COR. 

Phe.     Dead  shepherd  !  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might ; 
Who  ever  lov'd  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight  ? 

Sil.     Sweet  Phebe,— 

Phe.  Ha  !  what  say'st  thou,  Silvius  ? 

Sil.     Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 

Phe.     Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Silvius. 

Sil.     Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be : 
If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love, 


56     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

By  giving  love,  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 
Were  both  extermin'd. 

Phe.     Thou  hast  my  love :  is  not  that  neighbourly  ? 

«SV/.     I  would  have  you. 

Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was  that  I  hated  thee ; 
And  yet  it  is  not  that  I  bear  thee  love : 
But  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so  well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  will  endure ;  and  I'll  employ  thee  too : 
But  do  not  look  for  further  recompense 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employ'd. 

&7.     So  holy  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 
That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps :  loose  now  and  then 
A  scattered  smile,  and  that  I'll  live  upon. 

Phe.     Know'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke  to  me  erewhile  ? 

Sil.  Not  very  well,  but  I  have  met  him  oft ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage  and  the  bounds 
That  the  old  carlot  once  was  master  of. 

Phe.     Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him ; 
'Tis  but  a  peevish  boy: — yet  he  talks  well; — 
But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  yet  words  do  well 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
It  is  a  pretty  youth  : — not  very  pretty  :— 
But,  sure,  he's  proud ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him : 
He'll  make  a  proper  man  :  the  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he's  tall ; 
His  leg  is  but  so-so ;  and  yet  'tis  well : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip ; 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mix'd  in  his  cheek ;  'twas  just  the  difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  mark'd  him 
In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  in  love  with  him :  but,  for  my  part, 


The  Proud,  Disdainful  Shepherdess    57 

I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not ;  and  yet 

I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him : 

For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 

He  said  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black; 

And,  now  I  am  remember'd,  scorn'd  at  me : 

I  marvel  why  I  answer'd  not  again  : 

But  that's  all  one ;  omittance  is  not  quittance. 

I'll  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 

And  thou  shalt  bear  it :  wilt  thou,  Silvius  ? 

SiL     Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 

Phe.  I'll  write  it  straight ; 

The  matter's  in  my  head  and  in  my  heart : 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him   and  passing  short : 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  \Exeunt. 

(As  You  Like  //,  about 


58     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 


LOVE'S  PENANCE 

MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES  SAAVEDRA 

A  ND  in  this  very  manner  was  Amadis  the  north  star  and 
the  sun  of  valorous  and  amorous  knights,  whom  all 
we  ought  to  imitate  which  march  under  the  ensigns  of  love 
and  chivalry.  And  this  being  so  manifest  as  it  is,  I  find, 
friend  Sancho,  that  the  knight-errant  who  shall  imitate  him 
most  shall  likewise  be  nearest  to  attain  the  perfection  of 
arms.  And  that  wherein  this  knight  bewrayed  most  his 
prudence,  valour,  courage,  patience,  constancy,  and  love, 
was  when  he  retired  himself  to  do  penance,  being  disdained 
by  his  lady  Oriana,  to  the  Poor  Rock,  changing  his  name 
unto  that  of  Beltenebros :  a  name  certainly  most  signifi- 
cative, and  proper  for  the  life  which  he  had  at  that  time 
willingly  chosen.  And  I  may  more  easily  imitate  him 
herein  than  in  cleaving  of  giants,  beheading  of  serpents, 
killing  of  monsters,  overthrowing  of  armies,  putting  navies 
to  flight,  and  finishing  of  enchantments.  And  seeing  that 
this  mountain  is  so  fit  for  that  purpose,  there  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  overslip  the  occasion,  which  doth  so  com- 
modiously  proffer  me  her  locks. 

"  In  effect,"  quoth  Sancho,  "  what  is  it  you  mean  to  do 
in  these  remote  places  ?  "  "  Have  I  not  told  thee  already," 
said  Don  Quixote,  "that  I  mean  to  follow  Amadis,  by 
playing  here  the  despaired,  wood,  and  furious  man  ?  .  .  . 
And  although  I  mean  not  to  imitate  Roldan,  or  Orlando, 
or  Rowland  (for  he  had  all  these  names),  exactly  in  every 
mad  prank  that  he  played,  yet  will  I  do  it  the  best  I  can  in 
those  things  which  shall  seem  unto  me  most  essential.  And 
perhaps  I  may  rest  contented  with  the  only  imitation  of 
Amadis,  who,  without  endamaging,  and  by  his  ravings,  and 
only  using  these  of  feeling  laments,  [arrived]  to  as  great 
fame  thereby  as  any  one  whatsoever." 

"  I  believe,"  replied  Sancho,  "  that  the  knights  which 
performed  the  like  penances  were  moved  by  some  reasons 
to  do  the  like  austerities  and  follies ;  but,  good  sir,  what 


Loves    Penance  59 

occasion  hath  been  offered  unto  you  to  become  mad  ? 
What  lady  hath  disdained  you  ?  Of  what  arguments  have 
you  found  that  the  Lady  Dulcmea  of  Toboso  hath  ever 
dallied  with  Moor  or  Christian  ?  "  "  That  is  the  point," 
answered  our  knight,  "and  therein  consists  the  perfection 
of  mine  affairs ;  for  that  a  knight-errant  do  run  mad  upon 
any  just  occasion  deserves  neither  praise  nor  thanks;  the 
wit  is  in  waxing  mad  without  cause,  whereby  my  mistress 
may  understand,  that  if  dry  I  could  do  this,  what  would  I 
have  done  being  watered  ?  How  much  more,  seeing  I  have 
a  just  motive,  through  the  prolix  absence  that  I  have  made 
from  my  ever  supremest  Lady  Dulcinea  of  Toboso  ?  For, 
as  thou  mightest  have  heard  read  in  Marias  Ambrosio  his 
Shepherd, — 

"  To  him  that  absent  is, 
All  things  succeed  amiss." 

So  that,  friend  Sancho,  I  would  not  have  thee  lavish  time 
longer  in  advising  to  let  slip  so  rare,  so  happy,  and  singular 
an  invitation.  I  am  mad,  and  will  be  mad,  until  thou 
return  again  with  answer  upon  a  letter,  which  I  mean  to 
send  with  thee  to  my  Lady  Dulcinea ;  and  if  it  be  such  as 
my  loyalty  deserves,  my  madness  and  penance  shall  end  ; 
but  if  the  contrary,  I  shall  run  mad  in  good  earnest,  and  be 
in  that  state  that  I  shall  apprehend  nor  feel  anything.  So 
that,  howsoever  I  be  answered,  I  shall  issue  out  of  the  con- 
flict and  pain  wherein  thou  leavest  me,  by  joying  the  good 
thou  shalt  bring  me,  as  wise ;  or  not  feeling  the  evil  thou 
shalt  denounce,  as  mad." 

Whilst  thus  he  discoursed,  he  arrived  at  the  foot  of  a 
lofty  mountain,  which  stood  like  a  hewn  rock  divided  from 
all  the  rest,  by  the  skirt  whereof  glided  a  smooth  river, 
hemmed  in  on  every  side  by  a  green  and  flourishing 
meadow,  whose  verdure  did  marvellously  delight  the  greedy 
beholding  eye;  there  were  in  it  also  many  wild  trees, 
and  some  plants  and  flowers,  which  rendered  the  place 
much  more  pleasing.  The  Knight  of  the  Ill-favoured 
Face  made  choice  of  this  place  to  accomplish  therein 
his  penance;  and  therefore,  as  soon  as  he  had  viewed 
it,  he  began  to  say,  with  a  loud  voice  like  a  dis- 


6o     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

tracted  man,  these  words  ensuing :  "  This  is  the  place 
where  the  humour  of  mine  eyes  shall  increase  the  liquid 
veins  of  this  crystal  current,  and  my  continual  and  deep 
sighs  shall  give  perpetual  motion  to  the  leaves  of  these 
mountainy  trees,  in  testimony  of  the  pain  which  my  op- 
pressed heart  doth  suffer.  O  you,  whosoever  you  be, 
rustical  gods  !  which  have  your  mansion  in  this  inhabitable 
place,  give  ear  to  the  plaints  of  this  unfortunate  lover, 
whom  a  long  absence  and  a  few  imagined  suspicions  have 
conducted  to  deplore  his  state  among  these  deserts,  and 
make  him  exclaim  on  the  rough  condition  of  that  ingrate 
and  fair,  who  is  the  top,  the  sun,  the  period,  term,  and  end 
of  all  human  beauty.  O  ye  Napeas  and  Dryads !  which 
do  wontedly  inhabit  the  thickets  and  groves,  so  may  the 
nimble  and  lascivious  satyrs,  by  whom  (although  in  vain) 
you  are  beloved,  never  have  power  to  interrupt  your  sweet 
rest,  as  you  shall  assist  me  to  lament  my  disasters,  or  at 
least  attend  them,  while  I  dolefully  breathe  them.  O 
Dulcinea  of  Toboso !  the  day  of  my  night,  the  glory  of 
my  pain,  north  of  my  travels,  and  star  of  my  fortune 
so  Heaven  enrich  thee  with  the  highest,  whensoever  thou 
shalt  demand  it,  as  thou  wilt  consider  the  place  and  pass 
unto  which  thine  absence  hath  conducted  me,  and  answer 
my  faith  and  desires  in  compassionate  and  gracious  manner. 
O  solitary  trees  (which  shall  from  henceforward  keep  com- 
pany with  my  solitude),  give  tokens,  with  the  soft  motion 
of  your  boughs,  that  my  presence  doth  not  dislike  you.  O 
thou  squire,  and  grateful  companion  in  all  prosperous  and 
adverse  successes !  bear  well  away  what  thou  shalt  see  me 
do  here,  to  the  end  that  thou  mayest  after  promptly  recount 
it  as  the  total  cause  of  my  ruin."  And,  saying  so,  he 
alighted  from  Rosinante,  and,  taking  off  in  a  trice  his  bridle 
and  saddle,  he  struck  him  on  the  buttock,  saying,  "  He 
gives  thee  liberty  that  wants  it  himself,  O  horse !  as 
famous  for  thy  works  as  thou  art  unfortunate  by  thy  fates. 
Go  where  thou  pleasest ;  for  thou  bearest  written  in  thy 
forehead,  how  that  neither  the  Hippogriff  of  Astolpho,  nor 
the  renowned  Frontino,  which  cost  Bradamante  so  dearly, 
could  compare  with  thee  for  swiftness." 

When  Sancho  had  viewed  and  heard  his  lord  speak  thus, 


Loves   Penance  61 

he  likewise  said,  "  Good  betide  him  that  freed  us  from  the 
pains  of  unpannelling  the  grey  ass ;  for  if  he  were  here,  in 
faith,  he  should  also  have  two  or  three  claps  on  the  buttocks, 
and  a  short  oration  in  his  praise.  Yet  if  he  were  here,  I 
would  not  permit  any  other  to  unpannel  him,  seeing  there 
was  no  occasion  why ;  for  he  good  beast,  was  nothing  sub- 
ject to  the  passions  of  love  or  despair,  no  more  than  I,  who 
was  his  master  when  it  pleased  God.  And,  in  good  sooth, 
sir  Knight  of  the  Ill-favoured  Face,  if  my  departure  and 
your  madness  be  in  good  earnest,  it  will  be  needful  to 
saddle  Rosinante  again,  that  he  may  supply  the  want  of 
mine  ass ;  for  it  will  shorten  the  time  of  my  departure  and 
return  again.  And  if  I  make  my  voyage  afoot,  I  know 
not  when  I  shall  arrive  there,  or  return  here  back  unto  you  ; 
for,  in  good  earnest,  I  am  a  very  ill  footman." 

11  Let  it  be  as  thou  likest,"  quoth  Don  Quixote ;  "  for 
thy  design  displeaseth  me  nothing ;  and  therefore  I  resolve 
that  thou  shalt  depart  from  hence  after  three  days  ;  for  in 
the  mean  space  thou  shalt  behold  what  I  will  do  and  say 
for  my  lady's  sake  to  the  end  thou  mayst  tell  it  to  her." 
"  Why,"  quoth  Sancho,  "  what  more  can  I  view  than  that 
which  I  have  seen  already  ?  "  "  Thou  art  altogether  wide 
of  the  matter,"  answered  Don  Quixote ;  "  for  I  must  yet 
tear  mine  apparel,  throw  away  mine  armour,  and  beat  my 
head  about  these  rocks,  with  many  other  things  of  that 
kind  that  will  strike  thee  into  admiration."  "  Let  me  be- 
seech you,"  quoth  Sancho,  "  see  well  how  you  give  your- 
self those  knocks  about  the  rocks ;  for  you  might  happen 
upon  some  one  so  ungracious  a  rock,  as  at  the  first  rap 
would  dissolve  all  the  whole  machina  of  your  adventures 
and  penance ;  and  therefore  I  would  be  of  opinion,  seeing 
that  you  do  hold  it  necessary  that  some  knocks  be  given 
with  the  head,  and  that  this  enterprise  cannot  be  accom- 
plished without  them,  that  you  content  yourself,  seeing  that 
all  is  but  feigned,  counterfeited,  and  a  jest, — that  you 
should,  I  say,  content  yourself  with  striking  it  on  the 
water,  or  on  some  other  soft  thing,  as  cotton  or  wool,  and 
leave  to  my  charge  the  exaggeration  thereof;  for  I  will  tell 
to  my  lady  that  you  strike  your  head  against  the  point  of  a 
rock  which  was  harder  than  a  diamond." 


62      Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

"  I  thank  thee,  Sancho,  for  thy  good-will,"  quoth  Don 
Quixote,  "  but  I  can  assure  thee  that  all  these  things  which 
I  do  are  no  jests,  but  very  serious  earnests  ;  for  otherwise 
we  should  transgress  the  statutes  of  chivalry,  which  com- 
mand us  not  to  avouch  any  untruth,  on  pain  of  relapse  ;  and 
to  do  one  thing  for  another,  is  as  much  as  to  lie.  So  that 
my  head-knocks  must  be  true,  firm,  and  sound  ones,  with- 
out any  sophistical  or  fantastical  shadow  :  and  it  will  be 
requisite  that  you  leave  me  some  lint  to  cure  me,  seeing 
that  fortune  hath  deprived  us  of  the  balsam  we  have  lost." 

"  It  was  worse  to  have  lost  the  ass,"  quoth  Sancho, 
"  seeing  that  at  once  with  him  we  have  lost  our  lint  and 
all  our  other  provision  ...  go  write  your  letter,  and 
despatch  me  with  all  haste ;  for  I  long  already  to  return, 
and  take  you  out  of  this  purgatory  wherein  I  leave 
you."  .  .  . 

"Thou  hast  reason,"  answered  the  Knight  of  the  Ill- 
favoured  Face ;  "  but  how  shall  I  write  the  letter  ? " 
"  And  the  warrant  for  the  receipt  of  the  colts  also  ?  "  added 
Sancho.  "All  shall  be  inserted  together,"  quoth  Don 
Quixote ;  "  and  seeing  we  have  no  paper,  we  may  do  well, 
imitating  the  ancient  men  of  times  past,  to  write  our  mind 
in  the  leaves  of  trees  or  wax ;  yet  wax  is  as  hard  to  be 
found  here  as  paper.  But,  now  that  I  remember  myself,  I 
know  where  we  may  write  our  mind  well,  and  more  than 
well,  to  wit,  in  Cardenio's  tablets,  and  thou  shalt  have  care 
to  cause  the  letters  to  be  written  out  again  fairly,  in  the 
first  village  wherein  thou  shalt  find  a  schoolmaster ;  or,  if 
such  a  one  be  wanting,  by  the  clerk  of  the  church ;  and 
beware  in  any  sort  that  thou  give  it  not  to  a  notary  or 
court-clerk  to  be  copied,  for  they  write  such  an  entangling, 
confounded  process  letter,  as  Satan  himself  would  scarce 
be  able  to  read  it."  "  And  how  shall  we  do  for  want  of 
your  name  and  subscription  ?  "  quoth  Sancho.  "  Why," 
answered  Don  Quixote,  "  Amadis  was  never  wont  to  sub- 
scribe to  his  letters."  "  Ay,  but  the  warrant  to  receive  the 
three  asses  must  forcibly  be  subsigned  ;  and  if  it  should 
afterwards  be  copied,  they  would  say  the  former  is  false, 
and  so  I  shall  rest  without  my  colts."  "  The  warrant 
shall  be  written  and  firmed  with  my  hand  in  the  tablets, 


Loves   Penance  63 

which,  as  soon  as  my  niece  shall  see,  she  shall  make  no 
difficulty  to  deliver  thee  them.  And,  as  concerning  the 
love-letter,  thou  shall  put  this  subscription  to  it,  4  yours 
until  death,  the  Knight  of  the  Ill-favoured  Face.'  And 
it  makes  no  matter  though  it  be  written  by  any  stranger ; 
forasmuch  as  I  can  remember  Dulcinea  can  neither  write 
nor  read,  nor  hath  she  seen  any  letter,  no,  not  so  much  as 
a  character  of  my  writing  all  the  days  of  her  life  ;  for  my 
love  and  hers  have  been  ever  Platonical,  never  extending 
themselves  further  than  to  an  honest  regard  and  view  the 
one  of  the  other,  and  even  this  same  so  rarely,  as  I  dare 
boldly  swear,  that  in  these  dozen  years  which  I  love  her 
more  dearly  than  the  light  of  these  mine  eyes,  which  the 
earth  shall  one  day  devour,  I  have  not  seen  her  four  times, 
and  perhaps  of  those  same  four  times  she  hath  scarce  per- 
ceived once  that  I  beheld  her — such  is  the  care  and  close- 
ness wherewithal  her  parents,  Lorenzo  Corcuelo  and  her 
mother  Aldonza  Nogales  have  brought  her  up."  "  Ta, 
ta,"  quoth  Sancho,  "  that  the  Lady  Dulcinea  of  Toboso  is 
Lorenzo  Corcuelo  his  daughter,  called  by  another  name, 
Aldonza  Lorenzo  ?  "  "  The  same  is  she,"  quoth  Don 
Quixote,  "and  it  is  she  that  merits  to  be  empress  of  the 
vast  universe."  "  I  know  her  very  well,"  replied  Sancho, 
"  and  I  dare  say  that  she  can  throw  an  iron  bar  as  well  as 
any  the  strongest  lad  in  our  parish."  .  .  .  "I  have  oft 
told  thee,  Sancho,  many  times,  that  thou  art  too  great  a 
prattler,"  quoth  Don  Quixote.  ..."  For  all  the  poets 
which  celebrate  certain  ladies  at  pleasure,  thinkest  thou 
that  they  all  had  mistresses  ?  No.  Dost  thou  believe  that 
the  Amaryllises,  the  Phyllises,  Silvias,  Dianas,  Galateas, 
Alcidas,  and  others  such  like,  wherewithal  the  books,  ditties, 
barbers'  shops  and  theatres  are  filled,  were  truly  ladies  of 
flesh  and  bones,  and  their  mistresses  which  have  and  do 
celebrate  them  thus  ?  No,  certainly ;  but  were  for  the 
greater  part  feigned,  to  serve  as  a  subject  for  their  verses, 
to  the  end  the  authors  might  be  accounted  amorous,  and 
men  of  courage  enough  to  be  such."  .  .  .  "I  avouch," 
quoth  Sancho,  "that  you  have  great  reason  in  all  that  you 
say,  and  that  I  am  myself  a  very  ass — but  alas  !  why  do  I 
name  an  ass  with  my  mouth,  seeing  one  should  not  mention 


64     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

a  rope  in  one's  house  that  was  hanged  ?  But  give  me  the 
letter,  and  farewell ;  for  I  will  change."  With  that,  Don 
Quixote  drew  out  his  tablets,  and,  going  aside,  began  to  in- 
dite his  letter  with  great  gravity  ;  which  ended,  he  called 
Sancho  to  read  it  to  him,  to  the  end  he  might  bear  it  away 
in  memory,  lest  by  chance  he  did  lose  the  tablets  on  the 
way;  for  such  were,  his  cross  fortunes,  as  made  him  fear 
every  event.  To  which  Sancho  answered,  saying,  "  Write 
it  there  twice  or  thrice  in  the  book,  and  give  it  me  after; 
for  I  will  carry  it  safely,  by  God's  grace.  For  to  think 
that  I  will  be  able  ever  to  take  it  by  rote  is  a  great  folly ; 
for  my  memory  is  so  short  as  I  do  many  times  forget  my 
own  name.  But  yet,  for  all  that,  read  it  to  me,  good  sir ; 
for  I  would  be  glad  to  hear  it,  as  a  thing  which  I  suppose 
to  be  as  excellent  as  if  it  were  cast  in  a  mould."  "  Hear 
it,  then,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  thus  it  says : 

THE  LETTER  OF  DON  QUIXOTE  TO  DULCINEA  OF  TOBOSO. 
41  SOVEREIGN  LADY, — The  wounded  by  the  point  of 
absence,  and  the  hurt  by  the  darts  of  the  heart,  sweetest 
Dulcinea  of  Toboso !  doth  send  thee  that  health  which  he 
wanteth  himself.  If  thy  beauty  disdain  me,  if  thy  valour 
turn  not  to  my  benefit,  if  thy  disdains  convert  themselves 
to  my  harm,  maugre  all  my  patience,  I  shall  be  ill  able  to 
sustain  this  care ;  which,  besides  that  it  is  violent,  is  also 
too  durable.  My  good  squire  Sancho  will  give  thee  certain 
relation,  O  beautiful  ingrate,  and  my  dearest  beloved 
enemy  !  of  the  state  wherein  I  remain  for  thy  sake.  If 
thou  please  to  favour  me,  I  am  thine ;  and  if  not,  do  what 
thou  likest :  for,  by  ending  of  my  life,  I  shall  both  satisfy 
thy  cruelty  and  my  desires. — Thine  until  death, 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  THE  ILL-FAVOURED  FACE." 

"  By  my  father's  life,"  quoth  Sancho,  when  he  heard  the 
letter,  "it  is  the  highest  thing  that  I  ever  heard.  Good 
God  !  how  well  you  say  everything  in  it !  and  how  excel- 
lently have  you  applied  the  subscription  of  l  The  Knight 
of  the  Ill-favoured  Face  ! ' ' 

(Don  Quixote,  Madrid,  160$ ;  translation  by  Thomas  Shel- 
ton,  London,  1620^) 


Unrequited  Love  65 


UNREQUITED   LOVE 

• 

BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHER 

An  Apartment  in  the  Palace.     Enter  PHILASTER  and  BEL- 
LARIO. 

DHL     And  thou  shall  find  her  honourable,  boy ; 

Full  of  regard  unto  thy  tender  youth, 
For  thine  own  modesty ;  and,  for  my  sake, 
Apter  to  give  than  thou  wilt  be  to  ask, 
Ay,  or  deserve. 

Bel.     Sir,  you  did  take  me  up 
When  I  was  nothing  ;  and  only  yet  am  something 
By  being  yours.     You  trusted  me  unknown ; 
And  that  which  you  were  apt  to  conster 
A  simple  innocence  in  me,  perhaps 
Might  have  been  craft,  the  cunning  of  a  boy 
Hardened  in  lies  and  theft ;  yet  ventured  you 
To  part  my  miseries  and  me ;  for  which, 
I  never  can  expect  to  serve  a  lady 
That  bears  more  honour  in  her  breast  than  you. 

Phi.     But,  boy,  it  will  prefer  thee.     Thou  art  young, 
And  bear'st  a  childish  overflowing  love 
To  them  that  clap  thy  cheeks  and  speak  thee  fair  yet ; 
But  when  thy  judgment  comes  to  rule  those  passions, 
Thou  wilt  remember  best  those  careful  friends 
That  placed  thee  in  the  noblest  way  of  life. 
She  is  a  princess  I  prefer  thee  to. 

Bel.     In  that  small  time  that  I  have  seen  the  world, 
I  never  knew  a  man  hasty  to  part  with 
A  servant  he  thought  trusty  :   I  remember, 
My  father  would  prefer  the  boys  he  kept 
To  greater  men  than  he  ;  but  did  it  not 
Till  they  were  grown  top  saucy  for  himself. 

Phi.     Why  gentle  boy,  I  find  no  fault  at  all 
In  thy  behaviour. 

Bel.     Sir,  if  I  have  made 


66      Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

A  fault  in  ignorance,  instruct  my  youth  : 
I  shall  be  willing,  if  not  apt,  to  learn ; 
Age  and  experience  will  adorn  my  mind 
With  larger  knowledge ;  and  if  I  have  done 
A  wilful  fault,  think  me  not  past  all  hope 
For  once.     What  master  holds  so  strict  a  hand 
Over  his  boy  that  he  will  part  with  him 
Without  one  warning.     Let  me  be  corrected, 
To  break  my  stubbornness,  if  it  be  so, 
Rather  than  turn  me  off;  and  I  shall  mind. 

Phi.     Xhy  love  doth  plead  so  prettily  to  stay 
That,  trust  me,  I  could  weep  to  part  with  thee. 
Alas,  I  do  not  turn  thee  off!  thou  know'st 
It  is  my  business  that  doth  call  thee  hence ; 
And  when  thou  art  with  her,  thou  dwell'st  with  me. 
Think  so,  and  'tis  so :  and  when  time  is  full, 
That  thou  hast  well  discharged  this  heavy  trust, 
Laid  on  so  weak  a  one,  I  will  again 
With  joy  receive  thee ;  as  I  live,  I  will ! 
Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  boy.     'Tis  more  than  time 
Thou  didst  attend  the  princess. 

Bel.     I  am  gone 

But  since  I  am  to  part  with  you,  my  lord, 
And  none  knows  whether  I  shall  live  to  do 
More  service  for  you,  take  this  little  prayer : 
Heaven  bless  your  loves,  your  fights,  all  your  designs  ! 
May  sick  men,  if  they  have  thy  wish,  be  well ; 
And  Heaven  hate  those  you  curse,  though  I  be  one ! 

[Exit. 

Phi.     The  love  of  boys  unto  their  lords  is  strange; 
I  have  read  wonders  of  it :  yet  this  boy 
For  my  sake  (if  a  man  may  judge  by  looks 
And  speech)  would  out-do  story.     I  may  see 
A  day  to  pay  him  for  his  loyalty.  [Exit. 


ARETHUSA'S    Apartment   in   the   Palace.     Enter  BELLARIO 

richly  dressed. 
Are.     Sir, 
You  are  sad  to  change  your  service  ;  is't  not  so  ? 


Unrequited  Love  67 

Bel.     Madam,  I  have  not  changed  ;  I  wait  on  you, 
To  do  him  service. 

Are.     Thou  disclaim'st  in  me. 
Tell  me  thy  name. 

Bel.     Bellario. 

Are.     Thou  canst  sing  and  play  ? 

Bel.     If  grief  will  give  me  leave,  madam,  I  can. 

Are.     Alas,  what  kind  of  grief  can  thy  years  know  ? 
Hadst  thou  a  curst  master  when  thou  went'st  to  school  ? 
Thou  art  not  capable  of  other  grief; 
Thy  brows  and  cheeks  are  smooth  as  waters  be 
When  no  breath  troubles  them :  believe  me,  boy, 
Care  seeks  out  wrinkled  brows  and  hollow  eyes, 
And  builds  himself  caves  to  abide  in  them. 
Come,  sir,  tell  me  truly  does  your  lord  love  me  ? 

Bel.     Love,  madam  !   I  know  not  what  it  is. 

Are.     Canst  thou  know  grief,  and  never  yet  knew'st  love  ? 
Thou  art  deceived,  boy.      Does  he  speak  of  me 
As  if  he  wished  me  well  ? 

Bel.     If  it  be  love 

To  forget  all  respect  of  his  own  friends 
In  thinking  of  your  face  ;  if  it  be  love 
To  sit  cross-armed  and  sigh  away  the  day, 
Mingled  with  starts,  crying  your  name  as  loud 
And  hastily  as  men  i'  the  streets  do  fire ; 
If  it  be  love  to  weep  himself  away 
When  he  but  hears  of  any  lady  dead 
Or  killed,  because  it  might  have  been  your  chance ; 
If,  when  he  goes  to  rest  (which  will  not  be), 
'Twixt  every  prayer  he  says,  to  name  you  once, 
As  others  drop  a  bead,  be  to  be  in  love, 
Then,  madam,  I  dare  swear  he  loves  you. 

Are.     Oh  you're  a  cunning  boy,  and  taught  to  lie 
For  your  lord's  credit !  but  thou  know'st  a  lie 
That  bears  this  sound  is  welcomer  to  me 
Than  any  truth  that  says  he  loves  me  not. 
Lead  the  way  boy. — Do  you  attend  me,  too, — 
'Tis  thy  lord's  business  hastes  me  thus.     Away  ! 

\_Exeunt. 

(Philaster :  or  Love  lies  a  Bleeding,  1608^) 


68     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

PERIGOT  AND  AMORET 

JOHN  FLETCHER 

A  Dale  in  the  Wood.     Enter  AMORET. 
/t MO.     This  is  the  bottom. — Speak,  if  thou  be  here, 

My  Perigot !     Thy  Amoret,  thy  dear, 
Calls  on  thy  loved  name. 

Peri.     What  art  thou,  dare 

Tread  these  forbidden  paths,  where  death  and  care 
Dwell  on  the  face  of  darkness  ? 

Amo.     'Tis  thy  friend, 
Thy  Amoret  come  hither,  to  give  end 
To  these  consumings.     Look  up,  gentle  boy  : 
I  have  forgot  those  pains  and  dear  annoy 
I  suffered  for  thy  sake,  and  am  content 
To  be  thy  love  again.     Why  hast  thou  rent 
Those  curled  locks,  where  I  have  often  hung 
Ribbons  and  damask  roses,  and  have  flung 
Waters  distilled,  to" make  thee  fresh  and  gay, 
Sweeter  than  nosegays  on  a  bridal  day  ? 
Why  dost  thou  cross  thine  arms,  and  hang  thy  face 
Down  to  thy  bosom,  letting  fall  apace 
From  those  two  little  heavens,  upon  the  ground, 
Showers  of  more  price,  more  orient,  and  more  round, 
Than  those  that  hang  upon  the  moon's  pale  brow  ? 
Cease  these  complainings,  shepherd  :   I  am  now 
The  same  I  ever  was,  as  kind  and  free, 
And  can  forgive  before  you  ask  of  me ; 
Indeed,  I  can  and  will. 

Peri.     So  spoke  my  fair  ! 

Oh,  you  great  working  powers  of  earth  and  air, 
Water  and  forming  fire,  why  have  you  lent 
Your  hidden  virtues  of  so  ill  intent  ? 
Even  such  a  face,  so  fair,  so  bright  of  hue, 
Had  Amoret;  such  words,  so  smooth  and  new, 
Came  flowing  from  her  tongue ;  such  was  her  eye, 


Peri  got  and  Amoret  69 

And  like  the  pointed  sparkle  that  did  fly 
Forth  like  a  bleeding  shaft ;  all  is  the  same, 
The  robe  and  buskins,  painted  hook  and  frame 
Of  all  her  body.     Oh  me,  Amoret ! 

Amo.     Shepherd,  what  means  this  riddle  ?  who  hath  set 
So  strong  a  difference  'twixt  myself  and  me, 
That  I  am  grown  another  ?     Look,  and  see 
The  ring  thou  gav'st  me,  and  about  my  wrist 
That  curious  bracelet  thou  thyself  didst  twist 
From  those  fair  tresses.     Know'st  thou  Amoret  ? 
Hath  not  some  newer  love  forced  thee  forget 
Thy  ancient  faith  ? 

Peri.     Still  nearer  to  my  love  ! 
These  be  the  very  words  she  oft  did  prove 
Upon  my  temper;  so  she  still  would  take 
Wonder  into  her  face,  and  silent  make 
Signs  with  her  head  and  hand,  as  who  would  say, 
41  Shepherd,  remember  this  another  day." 

Amo.     Am  I  not  Amoret  ?  where  was  I  lost  ? 
Can  there  be  heaven,  and  time,  and  men,  and  most 
Of  these  inconstant  ?     Faith,  where  art  thou  fled  ? 
Are  all  the  vows  and  protestations  dead, 
The  hands  held  up,  the  wishes  and  the  heart  ? 
Is  there  not  one  remaining,  not  a  part 
Of  all  these  to  be  found  ?     Why,  then,  I  see 
Men  never  knew  that  virtue,  constancy. 

Perl.     Men  ever  were  most  blessed,  till  cross  fate 
Brought  love  and  women  forth,  unfortunate 
To  all  that  ever  tasted  of  their  smiles ; 
Whose  actions  are  all  double,  full  of  wiles ; 
Like  to  the  subtle  hare,  that  'fore  the  hounds 
Makes  many  turnings,  leaps  and  many  rounds, 
This  way  and  that  way,  to  deceive  the  scent 
Of  her  pursuers. 

Amo.     'Tis  but  to  prevent 
Their  speedy  coming  on,  that  seek  her  fall ; 
The  hands  of  cruel  men,  more  bestial, 
And  of  a  nature  more  refusing  good 
Than  beasts  themselves  or  fishes  of  the  flood. . 

Peri.     Thou  art  all  these,  and  more  than  nature  meant 


jo     Love  in.  Literature  and  Art 

When  she  created  all ;   frowns,  joys,  content ; 
Extreme  fire  for  an  hour,  and  presently 
Colder  than  sleepy  poison,  or  the  sea 
Upon  whose  face  sits  a  continual  frost ; 
Your  actions  ever  driven  to  the  most, 
Then  down  again  as  low,  that  none  can  find 
The  rise  or  falling  of  a  woman's  mind. 

Amo.     Can  there  be  any  age,  or  days,  or  time, 
Or  tongues  of  men,  guilty  so  great  a  crime 
As  wronging  simple  maid  ?     Oh,  Perigot, 
Thou  that  wast  yesterday  without  a  blot ; 
Thou  that  wast  every  good  and  every  thing 
That  men  call  blessed ;  thou  that  wast  the  spring 
From  whence  our  looser  grooms  drew  all  their  best ; 
Thou  that  wast  always  just  and  always  blest 
In  faith  and  promise ;  thou  that  hadst  the  name 
Of  virtuous  given  thee,  and  made  good  the  same 
Even  from  thy  cradle ;  thou  that  wast  that  all 
That  men  delighted  in  !     Oh,  what  a  fall 
Is  this,  to  have  been  so,  and  now  to  be 
The  only  best  in  wrong  and  infamy  ! 
Am  I  to  live  to  know  this  !  and  by  me, 
That  loved  thee  dearer  than  mine  eyes,  or  that 
Which  we  esteemed  our  honour,  virgin-state  ! 
Dearer  than  swallows  love  the  early  morn, 
Or  dogs  of  chase  the  sound  of  merry  horn ; 
Dearer  than  thou  can'st  love  thy  new  love,  if  thou  hast 
Another,  and  far  dearer  than  the  last ; 
Dearer  than  thou  can'st  love  thyself,  though  all 
The  self-love  were  within  thee  that  did  fall 
With -the  coy  swain  that  now  is  made  a  flower, 
For  whose  dear  sake  Echo  weeps  many  a  shower ! 
And  am  I  thus  rewarded  for  my  flame  ? 
Loved  worthily  to  get  a  wanton's  name  ? 
Come,  thou  forsaken  willow,  wind  my  head, 
And  noise  it  to  the  world,  my  love  is  dead ! 
I  am  forsaken  I  am  cast  away, 
And  left  for  every  lazy  groom  to  say 
I  was  unconstant,  light  and  sooner  lost 
Than  the  quick  clouds  we  see,  or  the  chill  frost 


Perigot  and  Amoret  71 

When  the  hot  sun  beats  on  it !     Tell  me  yet, 
Canst  thou  not  love  again  thy  Amoret  ? 

Peri.     Thou  art  not  worthy  of  that  blessed  name : 
I  must  not  know  thee  :  fling  thy  wanton  flame 
Upon  some  lighter  blood  that  may  be  hot 
With  words  and  feigned  passions ;  Perigot 
Was  ever  yet  unstained,  and  shall  not  now 
Stoop  to  the  meltings  of  a  borrowed  brow. 

Amo.     Then  hear  me,  Heaven,  to  whom  I  call  for  right, 
And  you  fair  twinkling  stars,  that  crown  the  night ; 
And  hear  me  woods,  and  silence  of  this  peace, 
And  ye,  sad  hours,  that  move  a  sullen  pace ; 
Hear  me,  ye  shadows,  that  delight  to  dwell 
In  horrid  darkness,  and  ye  powers  of  hell, 
Whilst  I  breathe  out  my  last  !     I  am  that  maid, 
That  yet  un-tainted  Amoret,  that  played 
The  careless  prodigal,  and  gave  away 
My  soul  to  this  young  man  that  now  dares  say 
I  am  a  stranger,  not  the  same,  more  wild  ; 
And  thus  with  much  belief  I  was  beguiled  : 
I  am  that  maid,  that  have  delayed,  denied, 
And  almost  scorned  the  loves  of  all  that  tried 
To  win  me,  but  this  swain;  and  yet  confess 
I  have  been  wooed  by  many  with  no  less 
Soul  of  affection ;  and  have  often  had 
Rings,  belts,  and  cracknels,  sent  me  from  the  lad 
That  feeds  his  flocks  down  westward  :  lambs  and  doves 
By  young  Alexis  ;  Daphnis  sent  me  gloves  ; 
All  which  I  gave  to  thee  :  nor  these  nor  they 
That  sent  them  did  I  smile  on,  or  e'er  lay 
Up  to  my  after-memory.     But  why 
Do  I  resolve  to  grieve,  and  not  to  die  ? 
Happy  had  been  the  stroke  thou  gav'st,  if  home ; 
By  this  time  I  had  found  a  quiet  room, 
Where  every  slave  is  free,  and  every  breast, 
That  living  bred  new  care,  now  lies  at  rest ; 
And  thither  will  poor  Amoret. 

Peri.     Thou  must. 
Was  ever  any  man  so  loath  to  trust 
His  eyes  as  I  ?  or  was  there  ever  yet 


72      Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

Any  so  like  as  this  to  Amoret  ? 

For  whose  dear  sake  I  promise,  if  there  be 

A  living  soul  within  thee,  thus  to  free 

Thy  body  from  it  !  \Wounds  her  with  bis  spear. 

Amo.  [falling^.     So,  this  work  hath  end. 
Farewell  and  live  ;  be  constant  to  thy  friend 
That  loves  thee  next. 

Enter  SATYR  ;  PERIGOT  runs  off. 

Sat.     See,  the  day  begins  to  break, 
And  the  light  shoots  like  a  streak 
Of  subtle  fire  ;  the  wind  blows  cold, 
Whilst  the  morning  doth  unfold; 
Now  the  birds  begin  to  rouse, 
And  the  squirrel  from  the  boughs 
Leaps,  to  get  him  nuts  and  fruit ; 
The  early  lark,  that  erst  was  mute, 
Carols  to  the  rising  day 
Many  a  note  and  many  a  lay : 
Therefore  here  I  end  my  watch, 
Lest  the  wandering  swain  should  catch 
Harm,  or  lose  himself. 

Amo.     Ah  me ! 

Sat.     Speak  again,  whate'er  thou  be ; 
I  am  ready  ;  speak,  I  say  ; 
By  the  dawning  of  the  day, 
By  the  power  of  night  and  Pan, 
I  enforce  thee  speak  again  ! 

Amo.     Oh,  I  am  most  unhappy. 

Sat.     Yet  more  blood  ! 
Sure,  these  wanton  swains  are  wood.1 
Can  there  be  a  hand  or  heart 
Dare  commit  so  vile  a  part 
As  this  murder  ?     By  the  moon, 
That  hid  herself  when  this  was  done, 
Never  was  a  sweeter  face  : 
I  will  bear  her  to  the  place 
Where  my  goddess  keeps  and  crave 
Her  to  give  her  life  or  grave.          [Exit,  carrying  AMORET. 

(The  Faithful  Shepherdess,  1610.) 
i  Mad. 


Greiffenhagen. 


AN   IDYLL 


The   Bereaved  Lover 


73 


THE 'BEREAVED  LOVER 

BEN  JONSON 

Sherwood  Forest.     Enter  ./EGLAMOUR,  who  is  fallen    into 
a  deep  melancholy  for  the  loss  of  his  beloved  EARINE. 

fl-^G.     Here  she  was  wont  to  go  !  and  here  !  and  here ! 

Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow ; 
The  world  may  find  the  spring  by  following  her ; 
For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left : 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass ! 
Or  shake  the  downy  Blow-ball  from  his  stalk  ! 
But  like  the  soft  west  wind  she  shot  along, 
And  where  she  went,  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 
As  she  had  sow'd  'em  with  her  odorous  foot. 


And  ha'  you  found  her  ? 

Muc.     Whom  ? 

JEg.     My  drowned  love, 
Earine,  the  sweet  Earine  ! 
The  bright  and  beautiful  Earine  ! 
Have  you  not  heard  of  my  Earine  ? 
Just  by  your  father's  mill  (I  think  I'm  right) 
Are  not  you  Much  the  miller's  son  ? 

Muc.     I  am. 

jEg.     And  baliff  to  brave  Robin  Hood  ? 

Muc.     The  same. 

jEg.     Close  by  your  father's  mills,  Earine, 
Earine  was  drown'd  !     O  my  Earine  ! 
(Old  Maudlin  tells  me  so,  and  Douce  her  daughter) 
Ha'  you  swept  the  river,  say  you  ?  and  not  found  her  ? 

Muc.     For  fowl  and  fish  we  have. 

£g.  O,  not  for  her  ? 

You're  goodly  friends  !  right  charitable  men  ! 
Nay,  keep  your  way ;  and  leave  me  :  make  your  toys, 


74     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Your  tales,  your  posies  that  you  talk'd  of;  all 
Your  entertainments  :  you  not  injure  me  : 
Only  if  I  may  enjoy  my  cypress  wreath  ! 
And  you  will  let  me  weep !  ('tis  all  I  ask ;) 
Till  I  be  turn'd  to  water,  as  was  she  ! 
And  troth,  what  less  suit  can  you  grant  a  man  ? 

Tuc.     His  phantasie  is  hurt,  let  us  now  leave  him  : 
The  wound  is  yet  too  fresh  to  admit  searching. 

j£g.     Searching  ?    where  should  I   search  ?  or  on  what 

track  ? 

Can  my  slow  drop  of  tears,  or  this  dark  shade 
About  my  brows,  enough  describe  her  loss ! 
Earine  !     O  my  Earine's  loss  ! 
No,  no,  no,  no;  this  heart  will  break  first. 

Geo.     How  will  this  sad  disaster  strike  the  ears 
Of  bounteous  Robin  Hood,  our  gentle  master ! 

Muc.     How  will  it  mar  his  mirth,  abate  his  feast ; 
And  strike  a  horror  into  every  guest ! 

;Eg.     If  I  could  knit  whole  clouds  about  my  brows, 
And  weep  like  Swithin,  or  those  wat'ry  signs, 
The  kids  that  rise  then,  and  drown  all  the  flocks 
Of  those  rich  shepherds,  dwelling  in  this  vale  j 
Those  careless  shepherds  that  did  let  her  drown ; 
Then  I  did  something :  or  could  make  old  Trent 
Drunk  with  my  sorrow,  to  start  out  in  breaches, 
To  drown  their  herds,  their  cattle  and  their  corn ; 
Break  down  their  mills,  their  dams,  o'erturn  their  wears, 
And  see  their  houses  and  whole  livelihood 
Wrought  into  water  with  her,  all  were  good : 
I'ld  kiss  the  torrent,  and  those  whirles  of  Trent, 
That  suck'd  her  in  my  sweet  Earine  ! 
When  they  have  cast  her  body  on  the  shore, 
And  it  comes  up  as  tainted  as  themselves, 
All  pale  and  bloodless,  I  will  love  it  still, 
For  all  that  they  can  do,  and  make  'em  mad, 
To  see  how  I  will  hug  it  in  mine  arms  ! 
And  hang  upon  her  looks,  dwell  on  her  eyes, 
Feed  round  about  her  lips,  and  eat  her  kisses  ! 
Suck  off  her  drowned  flesh  !  and  where's  their  malice  ? 
Not  all  their  envious  sousing  can  change  that : 


The  Bereaved  Lover  75 

But  I  will  still  study  some  revenge  past  this ! 
I  pray  you,  give  me  leave,  for  I  will  study, 
Though  all  the  bells,  pipes,  tabors,  timburines  ring, 
That  you  can  plant  about  me :  I  will  study. 

(  The  Sad  Shepherd.} 


76      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


A  LADY'S  STRATAGEM 

JEAN  BAPTISTE  MOLIERE 

ISABELLA,    SGANARELLE. 

QGAN.  That  will  do ;  I  know  the  house  and  the  person 
simply  from  the  description  you  have  given  me. 

ha.  \aside\.  Heaven,  be  propitious,  and  favour  to-day 
the  artful  contrivance  of  an  innocent  love  ! 

Sgan.  Do  you  say  they  have  told  you  that  his  name  is 
Valere  ? 

ha.     Yes. 

Sgan.  That  will  do ;  do  not  make  yourself  uneasy 
about  it.  Go  inside,  and  leave  me  to  act.  I  am  going  at 
once  to  talk  to  this  young  madcap. 

ha.  [as  she  goes  /'»].  For  a  girl,  I  am  planning  a  pretty 
bold  scheme.  But  the  unreasonable  severity  with  which  I 
am  treated  will  be  my  excuse  to  every  right  mind. 

SGANARELLE,  alone. 

[Knocks  at  the  door  of  Satire's  bouse].  Let  us  lose  no 
time  ;  here  it  is.  Who's  there  ?  Why,  I  am  dreaming  ! 
Hulloa,  I  say  !  hulloa  somebody  !  hulloa !  I  do  not  won- 
der, after  this  information,  that  he  came  up  to  me  just  now 
so  meekly.  But  I  must  make  haste,  and  teach  this  foolish 
aspirant. 

VALERE,  SGANARELLE,  ERGASTE. 

Sgan.  [to  ERGASTE,  who  has  come  out  hastily].  A  plague 
on  the  lubberly  ox  !  Do  you  mean  to  knock  me  down — 
coming  and  sticking  yourself  in  front  of  me  like  a  post  ? 

Val.     Sir,  I  regret     . 

Sgan.     Ah  !  you  are  the  man  I  want. 

Val.     I,  sir  ? 

Sgan.     You.     Your  name  is  Valere,  is  it  not  ? 

Val.     Yes. 


A  Lady's   Stratagem  77 

Sgan.  Tell  me  :  do  you  know  that  I  am  guardian  to  a 
tolerably  young  and  passably  handsome  girl  who  lives  in 
this  neighbourhood,  and  whose  name  is  Isabella  ? 

Val     Yes. 

Sgan.  As  you  know  it,  I  need  not  tell  it  you.  But  do 
you  know,  likewise,  that  as  I  find  her  charming,  I  care  for 
her  otherwise  than  a  guardian,  and  that  she  is  destined  for 
the  honour  of  being  my  wife  ? 

Val.     No ! 

Sgan.  I  tell  it  you  then ;  and  also  that  it  is  as  well  that 
your  passion  if  you  please,  should  leave  her  in  peace. 

Val.     Who  ?— I,  sir  ? 

Sgan.     Yes,  you.     Let  us  have  no  dissembling. 

Val.     Who  has  told  you  that  my  heart  is  smitten  by  her  ? 

Sgan.     Those  who  are  worthy  of  belief. 

Val.     Be  more  explicit. 

Sgan.     She  herself. 

Val.     She ! 

Sgan.  She.  Is  not  that  enough  ?  Like  a  virtuous 
young  girl,  who  has  loved  me  from  childhood,  she  told  me 
all  just  now ;  moreover,  she  charged  me  to  tell  you,  that, 
since  she  has  everywhere  been  followed  by  you,  her  heart, 
which  your  pursuit  greatly  offends,  has  only  too  well  under- 
stood the  language  of  your  eyes  ;  that  your  secret  desires 
are  well-known  to  her;  and  that  to  try  more  fully  to  ex- 
plain a  passion  which  is  contrary  to  the  affection  she  enter- 
tains for  me,  is  to  give  yourself  needless  trouble. 

Val.     She,  you  say,  of  her  own  accord,  makes  you     .     .     . 

Sgan.  Yes,  makes  me  come  to  you  and  give  you  this 
frank  and  plain  message;  also  that,  having  observed  the 
violent  love  wherewith  your  soul  is  smitten,  she  would 
earlier  have  let  you  know  what  she  thinks  about  you  if, 
perplexed  as  she  was,  she  could  have  found  any  one  to 
send  the  message  by ;  but  that  at  length  she  was  painfully 
compelled  to  make  use  of  me,  in  order  to  assure  you,  as  I 
have  told  you,  that  her  affection  is  denied  to  all  save  me ; 
that  you  have  been  ogling  her  long  enough  ;  and  that,  if 
you  have  ever  so  little  brains,  you  will  carry  your  passion 
somewhere  else.  Farewell,  till  our  next  meeting.  That  is 
what  I  had  to  tell  you. 


78      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Val.  \aside\.  Ergaste,  what  say  you  to  such  an  ad- 
venture ? 

Sgan.   \_aside,  retiring]^.     See  how  he  is  taken  aback  ! 

Erg.  \in  a  low  tone  to  VALERE].  For  my  part,  I  think 
there  is  nothing  in  it  to  displease  you  ;  that  a  rather  subtle 
mystery  is  concealed  under  it;  in  short,  that  this  message 
is  not  sent  by  one  who  desires  to  see  the  love  end  which 
she  inspires  in  you. 

Sgan.   \_aside\.     He  takes  it  as  he  ought. 

Val.  \in  a  low  tone  to  ERGASTEJ.  You  think  it  a  mys- 
tery .  .  . 

Erg.  Yes.  .  .  .  But  he  is  looking  at  us ;  let  us 
get  out  of  his  sight. 

SGANARELLE,  alone. 

How  his  face  showed  his  confusion!  Doubtless  he  did 
not  expect  this  message.  Let  me  call  Isabella ;  she  is 
showing  the  fruits  which  education  produces  on  the  mind. 
Virtue  is  all  she  cares  for;  and  her  heart  is  so  deeply 
steeped  in  it,  that  she  is  offended  if  a  man  merely  looks  at 
her. 

ISABELLA,  SGANARELLE. 

Isa.  \aside,  as  she  enter s\.  I  fear  that  my  lover,  full  of 
his  passion,  has  not  understood  my  message  rightly  !  Since 
I  am  so  strictly  guarded,  I  must  risk  one  which  shall  make 
my  meaning  clearer. 

Sgan.     Here  I  am,  returned  again. 

Isa.     Well  ? 

Sgan.  Your  words  wrought  their  full  purpose ;  I  have 
done  his  business.  He  wanted  to  deny  that  his  heart  was 
touched ;  but  when  I  told  him  I  came  from  you,  he  stood 
immediately  dumbfounded  and  confused ;  I  do  not  believe 
he  will  come  here  any  more. 

Isa.  Ah,  what  do  you  tell  me  ?  I  much  fear  the  con- 
trary, and  that  he  will  still  give  us  more  trouble. 

Sgan.     And  why  do  you  fear  this  ? 

Isa.  You  had  hardly  left  the  house  when,  going  to  the 
window  to  take  a  breath  of  air,  I  saw  a  young  man  at 
yonder  turning,  who  first  came,  most  unexpectedly  to  wish 
me  good-morning,  on  the  part  of  this  impertinent  man,  and 


A  Lady's  Stratagem  79 

then  threw  right  into  my  chamber  a  box,  enclosing  a  letter, 
sealed  like  a  love-letter.  I  meant  at  once  to  throw  it  after 
him ;  but  he  had  already  reached  the  end  of  the  street.  I 
feel  very  much  annoyed  at  it. 

Sgan.     Just  see  his  trickery  and  rascality  ! 

ha.  It  is  my  duty  quickly  to  have  this  box  and  letter 
sent  back  to  this  detestable  lover ;  for  that  purpose  I  need 
some  one ;  for  I  dare  not  venture  to  ask  yourself  . 

Sgan.  On  the  contrary,  darling,  it  shows  me  all  the 
more  your  love  and  faithfulness ;  my  heart  joyfully  accepts 
this  task.  You  oblige  me  in  this  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 

ha.     Take  it  then. 

Sgan.     Well,  let  us  see  what  he  has  dared  to  say  to  you. 

ha.     Heavens !     Take  care  not  to  open  it. 

Sgan.     Why  so  ? 

ha.  Will  you  make  him  believe  that  it  is  I  ?  A  respect- 
able girl  ought  always  to  refuse  to  read  the  letters  a  man 
sends  her.  The  curiosity  which  she  thus  betrays  shows  a 
secret  pleasure  in  listening  to  gallantries.  I  think  it  right 
that  this  letter  should  be  peremptorily  returned  to  Valere 
unopened,  that  he  may  the  better  learn  this  day  the  great 
contempt  which  my  heart  feels  for  him ;  so  that  his  pas- 
sion may  from  this  time  lose  all  hope,  and  never  more 
attempt  such  a  transgression. 

Sgan.  Of  a  truth  she  is  right  in  this !  Well,  your 
virtue  charms  me,  as  well  as  your  discretion.  I  see  that 
my  lessons  have  borne  fruit  in  your  mind ;  you  show  your- 
self worthy  of  being  my  wife. 

ha.  Still  I  do  not  like  to  stand  in  the  way  of  your 
wishes.  The  letter  is  in  your  hands  and  you  can  open  it. 

Sgan.  No,  far  from  it.  Your  reasons  are  too  good ;  I 
go  to  acquit  myself  of  the  task  you  impose  upon  me ;  I 
have  likewise  to  say  a  few  words  quite  near,  and  will  then 
return  hither  to  set  you  at  rest. 

SGANARELLE,  alone. 

How  delighted  I  am  to  find  her  such  a  discreet  girl !  I 
have  in  my  house  a  treasure  of  honour.  To  consider  a 
loving  look  treason,  to  receive  a  love-letter  as  a  supreme 
insult,  and  to  have  it  carried  back  to  the  gallant  by  myself  | 


8o      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

I  should  like  to  know,  seeing  all  this,  if  my  brother's  ward 
would  have  acted  thus,  on  a  similar  occasion.  Upon  my 
word,  girls  are  what  you  make  them.  .  .  .  Hulloa ! 

\Knocks  at  VALERE'S  door. 

SGANARELLE,  ERGASTE. 

Erg,     Who  is  there  ? 

Sgan.  Take  this ;  and  tell  your  master  not  to  presume 
so  far  as  to  write  letters  again,  and  send  them  in  gold 
boxes ;  say  also  that  Isabella  is  mightily  offended  at  it. 
See,  it  has  not  even  been  opened.  He  will  perceive  what 
regard  she  has  for  his  passion,  and  what  success  he  can  ex- 
pect in  it. 

Vol.     What  has  that  surly  brute  just  given  you  ? 

Erg.  This  letter,  sir,  as  well  as  this  box,  which  he  pre- 
tends that  Isabella  has  received  from  you,  and  about  which, 
he  says,  she  is  in  a  great  rage.  She  returns  it  to  you  un- 
opened. Read  it  quickly,  and  let  us  see  if  I  am  mistaken. 

Vol.  \reads\.  "This  letter  will  no  doubt  surprise  you; 
both  the  resolution  to  write  to  you  and  the  means  of  convey- 
ing it  to  your  hands  may  be  thought  very  bold  in  me ;  but 
I  am  in  such  a  condition,  that  I  can  no  longer  restrain  my- 
self. Well-founded  repugnance  to  a  marriage  with  which 
I  am  threatened  in  six  days,  makes  me  risk  everything; 
and  in  the  determination  to  free  myself  from  it  by  what- 
ever means,  I  thought  I  had  rather  choose  you  than  despair. 
Yet  do  not  think  that  you  owe  all  to  my  evil  fate ;  it  is  not 
the  constraint  in  which  I  find  myself  that  has  given  rise  to 
the  sentiments  I  entertain  for  you ;  but  it  hastens  the 
avowal  of  them,  and  makes  me  transgress  the  decorum 
which  the  proprieties  of  my  sex  require.  It  depends  on 
you  alone  to  make  me  shortly  your  own ;  I  wait  only  until 
you  have  declared  your  intentions  to  me  before  acquainting 
you  with  the  resolution  I  have  taken  :  but,  above  all  re- 
member that  time  presses,  and  that  two  hearts,  which  love 
each  other,  ought  to  understand  even  the  slightest  hint." 

Erg.  Well,  sir,  is  not  this  contrivance  original  ?  For  a 
young  girl  she  is  not  so  very  ignorant.  Would  one  have 
thought  her  capable  of  these  love  stratagems  ? 

Vol.     Ah,  I  consider  her  altogether  adorable.     This  evi- 


A   Lady  s  Stratagem  81 

dence  of  her  wit  and  tenderness  doubles  my  love  for  her, 
and  strengthens  the  feelings  with  which  her  beauty  inspires 
me 

Erg.     Here  comes  the  dupe ;  think  what  you  will  say 
to  him. 


VALERE,  SGANARELLE,  ERGASTE. 

Val.     Sir,  what  brings  you  here  again  ? 

Sgan.     Your  follies. 

Val.      How  ? 

Sgan.  You  know  well  enough  what  I  wish  to  speak 
to  you  about.  To  tell  you  plainly  I  thought  you  had 
more  sense.  You  have  been  making  fun  of  me  with  your 
fine  speeches,  and  nourish  silly  expectations.  Look  you, 
I  wished  to  treat  you  gently ;  but  you  will  end  by  making 
me  very  angry.  Are  you  not  ashamed,  considering  who 
you  are,  to  form  such  designs  as  you  do  ?  to  intend  to  carry 
off  a  respectable  girl,  and  interrupt  a  marriage  on  which  her 
whole  happiness  depends  ? 

Val.     Who  told  you  this  strange  piece  of  news,  sir  ? 

Sgan.  Do  not  let  us  dissimulate  ;  I  have  it  from  Isa- 
bella, who  sends  you  word  by  me,  fo'r  the  last  time,  that 
she  has  plainly  enough  shown  you  what  her  choice  is ;  that 
her  heart,  entirely  mine,  is  insulted  by  such  a  plan  ;  that 
she  would  rather  die  than  suffer  such  an  outrage ;  and  that 
you  will  cause  a  terrible  uproar  unless  you  put  an  end  to  all 
this  confusion. 

Val.  If  she  really  said  what  I  have  just  heard,  I  confess 
that  my  passion  has  nothing  more  to  expect.  These  ex- 
pressions are  plain  enough  to  let  me  see  that  all  is  ended ; 
I  must  respect  the  judgment  she  has  passed. 

Sgan.  If.  ...  You  doubt  it  then,  and  fancy  all 
the  complaints  that  I  have  made  to  you  on  her  behalf  are 
mere  pretences  !  Do  you  wish  that  she  herself  should  tell 
you  her  feelings  ?  To  set  you  right,  I  willingly  consent  to 
it.  Follow  me ;  you  shall  hear  if  I  have  added  anything, 
and  if  her  young  heart  hesitates  between  us  two. 

[Goes  and  knocks  at  his  own  door. 


82      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

ISABELLA,  SGANARELLE,  VALERE,  ERGASTE. 

Isa.  What !  you  bring  Valere  to  see  me !  What  is 
your  design  ?  Are  you  taking  his  part  against  me  ?  And 
do  you  wish,  charmed  by  his  rare  merits,  to  compel  me  to 
love  him,  and  endure  his  visits  ? 

Sgan.  No,  my  love  ;  your  affection  is  too  dear  to  me  for 
that ;  but  he  believes  that  my  messages  are  untrue ;  he 
thinks  that  it  is  I  who  speak,  and  cunningly  represent  you 
as  full  of  hatred  for  him,  and  of  tenderness  for  me  ;  I  wish, 
therefore,  from  your  own  mouth,  infallibly  to  cure  him  of  a 
mistake  which  nourishes  his  love. 

Isa.  [to  VALERE].  What !  Is  not  my  soul  completely 
bared  to  your  eyes,  and  can  you  still  doubt  whom  I  love  ? 

VaL  Yes,  all  that  this  gentleman  has  told  me  on  your 
behalf,  madam,  might  well  surprise  a  man;  I  confess  I 
doubted  it.  This  final  sentence,  which  decides  the  fate  of 
my  great  love,  moves  my  feelings  so  much  that  it  can  be  no 
offence  if  I  wish  to  have  it  repeated. 

Isa.  No,  no,  such  a  sentence  should  not  surprise  you. 
Sganarelle  told  you  my  very  sentiments ;  I  consider  them 
to  be  sufficiently  founded  on  justice,  to  make  their  full 
truth  clear.  Yes,  I  desire  it  to  be  known,  and  I  ought  to 
be  believed,  that  fate  here  presents  two  objects  to  my  eyes, 
who,  inspiring  me  with  different  sentiments,  agitate  my 
heart.  One,  by  a  just  choice,  in  which  my  honour  is  in- 
volved, has  all  my  esteem  and  love ;  and  the  other,  in  re- 
turn for  his  affection,  has  all  my  anger  and  aversion.  The 
presence  of  the  one  is  pleasing  and  dear  to  me,  and  fills  me 
with  joy  ;  but  the  sight  of  the  other  inspires  me  with  secret 
emotions  of  hatred  and  horror.  To  see  myself  the  wife 
of  the  one  is  all  my  desire ;  and,  rather  than  belong  to  the 
other,  I  would  lose  my  life.  But  I  have  sufficiently  de- 
clared my  real  sentiments;  and  languished  too  long  under 
this  severe  torture.  He  whom  I  love  must  use  diligence 
to  make  him  whom  I  hate  lose  all  hope,  and  deliver  me, 
by  a  happy  marriage,  from  a  suffering  more  terrible  than 
death. 

Sgan.     Yes,  darling,  I  intend  to  gratify  your  wish. 


A   Lady's   Stratagem  83 

ha.     It  is  the  only  way  to  make  me  happy. 

Sgan.     You  shall  soon  be  so. 

ha.  I  know  it  is  a  shame  for  a  young  woman  so  openly 
to  declare  her  love. 

Sgan.     No,  no. 

ha.  But,  seeing  what  my  lot  is,  such  liberty  must 
be  allowed  me;  I  can  without  blushing,  make  so  tender 
a  confession  to  him  whom  I  already  regard  as  a  hus- 
band. 

Sgan.-    Yes,  my  poor  child,  darling  of  my  soul ! 

ha.  Let  him  think,  then,  how  to  prove  his  passion  for 
me. 

Sgan.     Yes,  here,  kiss  my  hand. 

ha.  Let  him,  without  more  sighing,  hasten  a  marriage 
which  is  all  I  desire,  and  accept  the  assurance  which  I  give 
him,  never  to  listen  to  the  vows  of  another.  \_She  pretends 
to  embrace  SGANARELLE,  and  gives  her  hand  to  VALERE  to 
kiss.'] 

Sgan.  Oh,  oh,  my  little  pretty  face,  my  poor  little  dar- 
ling, you  shall  not  pine  long,  I  promise  you.  \To  VALERE.] 
There,  say  no  more.  You  see  I  do  not  make  her  speak ; 
it  is  me  alone  she  loves. 

Vol.  Well,  madam,  well,  this  is  a  sufficient  explanation, 
I  learn  by  your  words  what  you  urge  me  to  do ;  I  shall 
soon  know  how  to  rid  your  presence  of  him  who  so  greatly 
offends  you. 

ha.  You  could  not  give  me  greater  pleasure.  For,  to 
be  brief,  the  sight  of  him  is  intolerable.  It  is  odious  to  me, 
and  I  detest  it  so  much 

Sgan.     Eh  !     Eh  ! 

ha.     Do  I  offend  you  by  speaking  thus  ? 

Sgan.  Heavens  !  by  no  means  !  I  do  not  say  that.  But 
in  truth,  I  pity  his  condition  ;  you  show  your  aversion  too 
openly. 

ha.     I  cannot  show  it  too  much  on  such  an  occasion. 

Val.  Yes,  you  shall  be  satisfied  ;  in  three  days  your 
eyes  shall  no  longer  see  the  object  which  is  odious  to  you. 

ha.     That  is  right.     Farewell. 
•  Sgan.   \to  VALERE].     I  pity  your  misfortune,  but    .     .     . 

Val.     No,  you  will  hear  no  complaint  from  me.     The 


84      Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

lady  assuredly  does   us  both  justice,  and  I  shall   endeavour 
to  satisfy  her  wishes.     Farewell  ! 

Sgan.     Poor  fellow  !    his   grief  is  excessive.     Stay,  em- 
brace me  :  I  am  her  second  self.  \_Embraces  VALERE. 

(U  Ecole   des  Marls,  1 66 1 ;    trans,  by  Henri  Van  Laun, 
Edinburgh, 


A  Lovers'   Quarrel  85 


A  LOVERS'  QUARREL 

JEAN  BAETISTE  MOLIERE 

CLEONTE,  COVIELLE. 

LE.  What !  To  treat  a  lover  thus ;  and  that  a  lover 
the  most  constant  and  the  most  passionate  of  all  lovers  ! 

Cov.  It  is  a  most  horrible  thing  that  they  have  done  to 
us  both. 

Cle.  I  display  all  the  ardour  and  tenderness  imaginable 
to  a  lady;  I  love  no  one  on  earth  but  her,  and  think 
of  nothing  but  her;  she  is  all  my  care,  all  my  desire,  all 
my  joy  ;  I  speak  but  of  her,  think  but  of  her,  dream  but  of 
her;  I  live  but  for  her,  my  heart  beats  but  for  her,  and 
this  is  the  worthy  reward  for  so  much  affection  !  I  am 
two  days,  which  to  me  are  horrible  ages,  without  seeing 
her :  I  meet  her  by  accident ;  at  the  sight  of  her  my  heart 
feels  quite  elated,  joy  is  displayed  on  my  countenance, 
rapturously  I  fly  towards  her,  and  the  faithless  one  averts 
her  looks,  and  passes  abruptly  on,  as  if  she  had  never  seen 
me  in  her  life  ! 

Cov.     I  have  the  same  story  to  tell. 

Cle.  Has  aught  like  the  perfidy  of  this  ungrateful  Lucile 
ever  been  seen  ? 

Cov.     Or  anything,  sir,  like  that  of  that  jade,  Nicole  ? 

Cle.  After  the  many  ardent  sacrifices,  sighs  and  vows 
which  I  have  paid  to  her  charms  ! 

Cov.  After  such  assiduous  homage,  attentions  and  serv- 
ices which  I  have  rendered  her  in  the  kitchen  ! 

Cle.     The  many  tears  I  have  shed  at  her  feet ! 

Cov.  The  many  buckets  of  water  I  have  drawn  from 
the  well  for  her  ! 

Cle.  The  warmth  I  have  shown  in  cherishing  her  more 
than  my  own  self! 

Cov.  The  heat  I  have  suffered  in  turning  the  spit  in  her 
place  ! 

Cle.     She  flees  from  me  in  disdain  ! 


86      Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Cov.     She  turns  her  back  upon  me  shamelessly  ! 

Cl'e.     It  is  a  perfidy  deserving  the  greatest  punishment. 

Cov.  It  is  a  treachery  -that  merits  a  thousand  slaps  in  the 
face. 

Cl'e.  Do  not  you,  I  pray,  attempt  ever  to  speak  of  her 
to  me. 

Cov.     I,  sir  ?     Heaven  forbid  ! 

Cl'e.  Do  not  come  to  excuse  to  me  the  conduct  of  this 
faithless  girl. 

Cov.     You  need  not  fear. 

Cl'e.  No,  look  you  here,  all  your  speeches  in  her  defence 
will  avail  nothing. 

Cov.     Who  dreams  of  such  a  thing  ? 

Cl'e.  I  shall  nurse  my  spite  against  her,  and  break  off 
all  connection. 

Cov.     You  have  my  consent. 

Cl'e.  This  count  who  visits  at  her  house  excites  her 
fancy  perhaps ;  and  her  mind — I  see  it  well  enough — al- 
lows itself  to  be  dazzled  by  rank.  But  I  am  bound,  for  my 
honour's  sake,  to  prevent  the  scandal  of  her  inconstancy. 
I  will  go,  as  far  as  she  goes,  towards  the  change  to  which  I 
see  her  hastening,  and  not  leave  to  her  all  the  glory  of 
jilting  me. 

Cov.  That  is  well  said  ;  and  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
I  share  all  your  sentiments. 

Cl'e.  Assist  me  in  my  resentment,  and  support  my  reso- 
lution against  every  remainder  of  affection  which  might 
plead  for  her.  Say,  I  entreat  you,  all  the  harm  of  her  that 
you  can.  Give  me  a  portrait  of  her  which  shall  render  her 
contemptible  in  my  sight,  and,  to  disgust  me  with  her, 
point  me  out  all  the  faults  which  you  can  see  in  her. 

Cov.  She,  sir  ?  a  pretty  mawkin,  a  well-shaped,  preten- 
tious young  woman,  to  be  so  much  enamoured  of!  I  see 
nothing  in  her  but  what  is  very  ordinary  ;  and  you  will 
meet  a  hundred  women  more  worthy  of  you.  First  of  all, 
her  eyes  are  small. 

Cl'e.  That  is  true,  her  eyes  are  small ;  but  they  are  full 
of  fire,  the  most  brilliant,  the  most  piercing  in  this  world, 
and  the  tenderest  which  one  can  see. 

Cov.     She  has  a  large  mouth. 


A   Lovers'   Quarrel  87 

Cl'e.  Yes ;  but  it  has  charms  not  to  be  found  in  other 
mouths ;  and  this  very  mouth,  in  looking  at  it,  inspires  de- 
sire, and  is  the  most  attractive  and  amorous  in  the  world. 

Cov.     As  for  her  figure,  she  is  not  tall. 

Cl'e.     No;  but  it  is  full  of  ease,  and  well  shaped. 

Cov.  She  affects  a  carelessness  in  her  speech  and  move- 
ments. 

Cl'e.  It  is  true,  but  she  is  full  of  grace ;  and  her  man- 
ners are  engaging,  and  have  an  indefinable  charm  which 
twines  round  one's  heart. 

Cov.     As  to  her  wit 

Cl'e.  Ah  !  she  has  that,  Covielle,  of  the  finest  and  of 
the  most  delicate. 

Cov.     Her  conversation 

Cl'e.     Her  conversation  is  charming. 

Cov.     It  is  always  grave. 

Cl'e.  Would  you  have  unrestrained  liveliness,  and  ever 
profuse  gaiety  !  and  is  there  anything  more  annoying  than 
these  women  who  giggle  at  every  sally  ? 

Cov.  But,  after  all,  she  is  as  whimsical  as  any  one  could 
well  be. 

Cl'e.  Yes,  she  is  whimsical,  I  agree  with  you  there ;  but 
everything  becomes  the  fair  sex  ;  one  allows  everything  to 
the  fair  sex.1 

Cov.  Since  that  is  the  case,  I  see  plainly  that  you  are 
inclined  to  love  her  always. 

Cl'e.  I !  I  would  sooner  die  ;  and  I  mean  to  hate  her 
as  much  as  I  have  loved  her. 

Cov.     But  how,  if  you  find  her  so  perfect  ? 

Cl'e.  That  is  where  my  revenge  shall  prove  itself  all  the 
more ;  where  shall  I  the  better  show  her  the  strength  of 
my  heart  to  hate  her,  to  leave  her,  beautiful,  full  of  at- 
tractions, amiable  as  I  may  think  her.  Here  she  comes. 

LUCILE,  NICOLE,  CLEONTE,  COVIELLE. 
NIC.  \to  LUCILE].     As   for  me,  I  was   perfectly   scan- 
dalized at  it. 

1  It  is  said  that  Moliere  in  delineating  Lucile,  described  his  spouse, 
who  played  the  character.  That  may  be  true ;  but  the  real  passion, 
which  is  displayed  in  Cleonte's  answers  to  Covelle,  is,  in  every  way, 
admirable. 


88     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

Luc.  It  can  be  nothing  else,  Nicole,  than  what  I  tell 
you.  But  here  he  is. 

Cl'e.  [to  COVIELLE].     I  will  not  even  speak  to  her. 

Cov.     I  will  do  as  you  do. 

Luc.  What  is  it,  Cleonte  ?  What  is  the  matter  with 
you  ? 

Nic.     What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Covielle  ? 

Luc.     What  grief  possesses  you  ? 

Nic.     What  ill-humour  has  got  hold  of  you  ? 

Luc.     Are  you  dumb,  Cleonte  ? 

Nic.     Have  you  lost  your  speech,  Covielle  ? 

Cl'e.     This  is  villanous  ! 

Cov.     It  is  Judas-like  ! 

Luc.  I  see  clearly  that  the  meeting  just  now  has  dis- 
turbed your  mind. 

Cl'e.  [to  COVIELLE].  Ah  !  ah  !  people  are  finding  out 
what  they  have  been  doing. 

Nic.  Our  reception  of  you  this  morning  has  made  you 
alarmed. 

Cov.  [to  CLEONTE].     They  have  found  out  the  sore. 

Luc.  Is  it  not  true,  Cleonte,  that  this  is  the  reason  of 
your  huff? 

Cl'e.  Yes,  false  girl,  it  is  that,  since  I  am  to  speak ;  and 
I  must  tell  you  that  you  shall  not  glory,  as  you  think  you 
shall  in  your  faithlessness ;  that  I  shall  be  the  first  to  break 
with  you,  and  that  you  shall  not  have  the  advantage  of 
driving  me  away.  It  will  pain  me,  no  doubt,  to  conquer 
the  love  which  I  have  for  you ;  it  will  cause  me  some 
grief;  I  shall  suffer  for  some  time;  but  I  will  accomplish 
it,  and  I  will  sooner  stab  myself  to  the  heart  than  have 
the  weakness  to  come  back  to  you. 

Cov.  [to  NICOLE].  As  says  the  master,  so  says  the 
man. 

Luc.  There  is  much  ado  about  nothing  !  I  wish  to 
tell  you  the  reason,  Cleonte,  which  made  me  avoid  you  this 
morning. 

Cl'e.  [trying  to  go  away  from  LUCILE].  I  wish  to  listen  to 
nothing. 

Nic.  [to  COVIELLE].  I  wish  to  tell  you  the  reason  that 
made  us  pass  so  quickly. 


A  Lovers'   Quarrel  89 

Cov.  [also  endeavouring  to  go,  to  avoid  NICOLE].  I  wish 
to  hear  nothing. 

Luc.  ^following  CLEONTE],  You  must  know  then,  that 
this  morning 

Cl'e.  [moving  away,  without  looking  at  LUCILE].  No,  I 
tell  you. 

Nic.  \  following  COVIELLE],     Know  then     .     .     . 

Cov.  [moving  away,  without  looking  at  NICOLE].  No,  you 
wretch  ! 

Luc.     Listen. 

Cl'e.     Not  a  whit. 

Nic.     Let  me  speak. 

Cl'e.     I  am  deaf. 

Luc.     Cleonte ! 

Cl'e.     No. 

Nic.     Covielle ! 

Cov.     Not  a  bit. 

Luc.     Stay. 

Cl'e.     Stuff! 

Nic.     Hear  me. 

Cov.     Nonsense ! 

Luc.     One  moment. 

Cl'e.     Not  one. 

Nic.     A  little  patience. 

Cov.     Fiddle-sticks  ! 

Luc.     Two  words. 

Cl'e.     No  ;  it  is  finished. 

Nic.     One  word. 

Cov.     No  more  dealings. 

Luc.  [stopping].  Very  well  then  !  since  you  will  not 
hear  me,  keep  to  your  own  opinion,  and  do  as  you  please. 

Nic.  [also  stopping].     Since  you  act  thus,  take  it  as  you  will. 

Cl'e.  [turning  towards  LUCILE].  Let  us  know,  then,  the 
reason  of  such  a  pretty  welcome. 

Luc.  [going  in  her  turn,  to  avoid  CLEONTE].  It  no  longer 
pleases  me  to  tell  it. 

Cov.  [turning  towards  NICOLE].  Well,  just  let  us  learn 
this  story. 

Nic.  [also  going,  to  avoid  COVIELLE].  I  will  no  longer 
tell  it  to  you. 


90      Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

Cl'e.   [following  LUCILE].     Tell  me 

Luc.  [moving  away,  without  looking  at  CLEONTE].  No,  I 
shall  say  nothing. 

Cov.  \  following  NICOLE].     Relate  to  me 

Nic.  [moving  away,  without  looking  at  COVIELLE].  No, 
I  shall  relate  nothing  to  you. 

Cl'e.     Pray. 

Luc.     No,  I  tell  you. 

Cov.     For  mercy's  sake. 

Nic.     Not  a  whit. 

Cl'e.     I  pray  you. 

Luc.     Leave  me. 

Cov.     I  beseech  you. 

Nic.     Begone  from  there. 

Cl'e.     Lucile  ! 

Luc.     No. 

Cov.     Nicole ! 

Nic.     Not  a  bit. 

Cl'e.     In  Heaven's  name. 

Luc.     I  will  not. 

Cov.     Speak  to  me. 

Nic.     Not  at  all. 

Cl'e.     Clear  up  my  doubts. 

Luc.     No  :  I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Cov.     Ease  my  mind. 

Nic.     No  :   I  do  not  choose. 

Cl'e.  Well !  since  you  care  so  little  to  cure  my  grief, 
and  to  justify  yourself  for  the  unworthy  treatment  which 
my  affection  has  received  from  you,  this  is  the  last  time  that 
you  shall  see  me,  ungrateful  girl ;  and  I  shall  go  far  away 
from  you,  to  die  of  grief  and  love. 

Cov.  [to  NICOLE].     And  I,  I  will  follow  his  steps. 

Luc.  [to  CLEONTE,  who  is  going\.     Cleonte  ! 

Nic.  [to  COVIELLE,  who  is  about  to  follow  his  master}.  Cov- 
ielle  ! 

Cl'e.  [stopping'].      Eh  ! 

Cov.  [also  stopping].     Please  ? 

Luc.     Whither  are  you  going  ? 

Cl'e.     Where  I  have  told  you. 

Cov.     We  are  going  to  die. 


A   Lovers'   Quarrel  91 

Luc.     You  are  going  to  die,  Cleonte  ? 

Cl'e.     Yes,  cruel  one,  since  you  will  it  so. 

Luc.     I !     I  wish  you  to  die  ? 

Cl'e.     Yes,  you  wish  it. 

Luc.     Who  says  so  ? 

Cl'e.  [drawing  near  to  LUCILE].  Is  it  not  wishing  it, 
when  you  will  not  clear  up  my  suspicions  ? 

Luc.  Is  it  my  fault  ?  And  if  you  had  listened  to  me, 
would  I  not  have  told  you  that  the  adventure  of  which  you 
complain  was  caused  this  morning  by  the  presence  of  an 
old  aunt,  who  insists  that  merely  the  approach  of  a  man 
dishonours  a  girl,  who  perpetually  lectures  us  on  that  chap- 
ter, and  paints  us  all  men  as  devils  whom  we  should  flee 
from  ? 

NIC.  [to  COVIELLE],     That  is  the  secret  of  the  affair. 

Cl'e.     Are  you  not  deceiving  me,  Lucile  ? 

Cov.  \to  NICOLE].     Are  you  not  imposing  upon  me  ? 

Luc.  "to  CLEONTE].     Nothing  is  more  true. 

Nic.  "to  COVIELLE].     That  is  the  affair  as  it  is. 

Cov.  ^to  CLEONTE].     Shall  we  give  in  to  this  ? 

Cl'e.  Ah  !  Lucile,  how  quickly  you  appease  things  in 
my  heart  by  a  single  word  from  your  mouth,  and  how 
easily  we  are  persuaded  by  those  whom  we  love  ! 

Cov.  How  easily  one  is  wheedled  by  these  confounded 
animals. 

MRS.  JOURDAIN,  CLEONTE,  LUCILE,  NICOLE,  COVIELLE. 

Mrs.  Jour.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Cleonte ;  and  you  are 
just  in  good  time.  My  husband  is  coming;  quickly  choose 
the  moment  to  ask  him  for  Lucile's  hand. 

Cl'e.  Ah  !  madam,  how  sweet  these  words  are,  and  how 
they  flatter  my  wishes  !  Could  I  receive  a  more  charming 
command,  a  more  precious  favour  ? 

(Le   Bourgeois    Gentilhomme,    l6jO ;  translation   by   Henri 
•van  Laun^  Edinburgh,  1876.} 


92      Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


THE  PERVERSE  WIDOW 

SIR  RICHARD  STEELE 

TN  my  first  Description  of  the  Company  in  which  I  pass 
most  of  my  Time,  it  may  be  remembered  that  I  men- 
tioned a  great  Affliction  which  my  friend  Sir  Roger  had 
met  with  in  his  Youth  ;  which  was  no  less  than  a  Dis- 
appointment in  Love.  It  happened  this  Evening,  that  we 
fell  into  a  very  pleasing  Walk  at  a  Distance  from  his 
House.  As  soon  as  we  came  into  it,  "  It  is,"  quoth  the 
good  Old  Man,  looking  round  him  with  a  Smile,  "  very 
hard  that  any  Part  of  my  Land  should  be  settled  upon  one 
who  has  used  me  so  ill  as  the  perverse  Widow  did ;  and  yet 
I  am  sure  I  could  not  see  a  Sprig  of  any  Bough  of  this 
whole  Walk  of  Trees,  but  I  should  reflect  upon  her  and 
her  Severity.  She  has  certainly  the  finest  Hand  of  any 
Woman  in  the  World.  You  are  to  know  that  this  was  the 
Place  wherein  I  used  to  muse  upon  her;  and  by  that  Cus- 
tom I  can  never  come  into  it,  but  the  same  tender  Senti- 
ments revive  in  my  Mind,  as  if  I  had  actually  walked  with 
that  Beautiful  Creature  under  these  Shades.  I  have  been 
Fool  enough  to  carve  her  Name  on  the  Bark  of  several  of 
these  Trees;  so  unhappy  is  the  Condition  of  Men  in  Love, 
to  attempt  the  removing  of  their  Passion  by  the  Methods 
which  serve  only  to  imprint  it  deeper.  She  has  certainly 
the  finest  Hand  of  any  Woman  in  the  World." 

Here  followed  a  profound  Silence ;  and  I  was  not  dis- 
pleased to  observe  my  Friend  falling  so  naturally  into  a 
Discourse,  which  I  had  ever  before  taken  Notice  he  in- 
dustriously avoided.  After  a  very  long  Pause  he  entered 
upon  an  Account  of  this  great  Circumstance  in  his  Life, 
with  an  Air  which  I  thought  raised  my  Idea  of  him  above 
what  I  had  ever  had  before ;  and  gave  me  the  Picture  of 
that  cheerful  Mind  of  his,  before  it  received  that  Stroke 
which  has  ever  since  affected  his  Words  and  Actions.  But 
he  went  o/i  as  follows  : 


Terboch. 


THE    LOVERS 


The   Perverse    If^idow  93 

"  I  came  to  my  Estate  in  my  Twenty-Second  Year,  and 
resolved   to   follow  the  Steps  of  the  most  Worthy  of  my 
Ancestors  who  have  inhabited  this  Spot  of  Earth  before  me, 
in  all  the  Methods  of  Hospitality  and  good  Neighbourhood, 
for  the  Sake   of  my   Fame ;  and   in   Country    Sports  and 
Recreations,  for  the  sake  of  my  Health.     In  my  Twenty- 
Third   Year   I    was    obliged    to    serve    as    Sheriff  of  the 
County  ;  and  in  my  Servants,  Officers  and  whole  Equipage, 
indulged  the  Pleasure  of  a  young  Man  (who  did  not  think 
ill   of  his  own  Person)  in  taking  that  publick  Occasion  of 
shewing  my  Figure  and  Behaviour  to  Advantage.     You  may 
easily  imagine   to  yourself  what  Appearance  I  made,  who 
am  pretty  tall,  rid '  well,  and  was  very  well  dressed,  at  the 
Head   of    a   whole    County,    with    Musick    before   me,   a 
Feather   in   my    Hat,  and  my   Horse  well   Bitted.     I   can 
assure  you   I  was  not  a  little  pleased  with  the  Kind  Looks 
and  Glances  I  had  from  all  the  Balconies  and  Windows  as 
I  rode  to  the  Hall  where  the  Assizes  were  held.      But  when 
I  came  there,  a  Beautiful  Creature  in  a  Widow's   Habit  sat 
in   Court  to  hear  the   Event  of  a  Cause  concerning   her 
Dower.     This   commanding   Creature   (who  was  born  for 
Destruction  of  all  who  behold  her)  put  on  such  a  Resigna- 
tion   in   her  Countenance,  and   bore   the  Whispers   of  all 
around  the  Court  with  such  a  pretty  Uneasiness,  I  warrant 
you,  and  then  recovered  herself  from  one  Eye  to  another, 
'till   she  was   perfectly  confused  by  meeting  something  so 
wistful  in  all  she  encountered,  that  at  last,  with  a  Murrain 
to  her,  she  cast  her  bewitching  Eye  upon  me.     I  no  sooner 
met   it,   but   I   bowed  like   a  great  surprised  Booby  ;  and 
knowing  her  Cause  to  be  the  first  which  came  on,  I  cried, 
like   a   Captivated   Calf  as   I  was,  Make  way  for  the  De- 
fendant's Witnesses.     This  sudden  Partiality  made  all  the 
County   immediately   see  the    Sheriff  also  was    become  a 
Slave  to  the   fine  Widow.     During  the   Time  her  Cause 
was   upon   Trial,  she  behaved  herself,  I  warrant  you,  with 
such  a  deep  Attention  to  her  Business,  took  Opportunities 
to  have  little  Billets  handed  to  her  Council,  then  would  be 
in  such  a  pretty  Confusion,  occasioned,  you  must  know,  by 
acting  before  so   much   Company,  that  not  only  I  but  the 

1  Ride. 


94 


Love  in   Literature  and  Art 


whole  Court  was  prejudiced  in  her  Favour ;  and  all  that  the 
next  Heir  to  her  Husband  had  to  urge,  was  thought  so 
groundless  and  frivolous,  that  when  it  came  to  her  Council 
to  reply,  there  was  not  half  so  much  said  as  every  one  be- 
sides in  the  Court  thought  he  could  have  urged  to  his 
Advantage.  You  must  understand,  Sir,  this  perverse 
Woman  is  one  of  those  unaccountable  Creatures,  that 
secretly  rejoice  in  the  Admiration  of  Men,  but  indulge 
themselves  in  no  further  Consequences.  Hence  it  is  that 
she  has  ever  had  a  Train  of  Admirers,  and  she  removes 
from  her  Slaves  in  Town  to  those  in  the  Country,  accord- 
ing to  the  Seasons  of  the  Year.  She  is  a  reading  Lady,  and 
far  gone  in  the  Pleasures  of  Friendship ;  She  is  always 
accompanied  by  a  Confident,  who  is  Witness  to  her  daily 
Protestations  against  our  Sex,  and  consequently  a  Bar  to  her 
first  Steps  towards  Love,  upon  the  Strength  of  her  own 
Maxims  and  Declarations. 

"  However,  I  must  needs  say  this  accomplished  Mistress 
of  mine  has  distinguished  me  above  the  rest,  and  has  been 
known  to  declare  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  was  the  Tamest  and 
most?Human  of  all  the  Brutes  in  the  Country.  I  was  told 
she  said  so,  by  one  who  thought  he  rallied  me ;  but  upon 
the  Strength  of  this  slender  Encouragement,  of  being 
thought  least  detestable,  I  made  new  Liveries,  new  paired 
my  Coach-Horses,  sent  them  all  to  Town  to  be  bitted,  and 
taught  to  throw  their  Legs  well,  and  move  all  together,  be- 
fore I  pretended  to  cross  the  Country  and  wait  upon  her. 
As  soon  as  I  thought  my  Retinue  suitable  to  the  Character 
of  my  Fortune  and  Youth,  I  set  out  from  hence  to  make 
my  Addresses.  The  particular  skill  of  this  Lady  has  ever 
been  to  inflame  your  Wishes  and  yet  command  Respect. 
To  make  her  Mistress  of  this  Art,  she  has  a  greater  Share 
of  Knowledge,  Wit  and  good  Sense,  than  is  usual  even 
among  Men  of  Merit.  Then  she  is  beautiful  beyond  the 
Race  of  Women.  If  you  won't  let  her  go  on  with  a  cer- 
tain Artifice  with  her  Eyes,  and  the  Skill  of  a  Beauty,  she 
will  arm  herself  with  her  real  Charms,  and  strike  you  with 
Admiration  instead  of  Desire.  It  is  certain  that  if  you 
were  to  behold  the  whole  Woman,  there  is  that  Dignity  in 
her  Aspect,  that  Composure  in  her  Motion,  that  Compla- 


The   Perverse    Widow  95 

cency  in  her  Manner,  that  if  her  Form  makes  you  hope, 
her  Merit  makes  you  fear.  But  then  again,  she  is  such  a 
desperate  Scholar,  that  no  Country-Gentleman  can  approach 
her  without  being  a  Jest.  As  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  when 
I  came  to  her  House  I  was  admitted  to  her  Presence  with 
great  Civility  ;  at  the  same  time  she  placed  herself  to  be 
first  seen  by  me  in  such  an  Attitude,  as  I  think  you  call  the 
Posture  of  a  Picture,  that  she  discovered  new  Charms,  and 
I  at  last  came  towards  her  with  such  an  Awe  as  made  me 
Speechless.  This  she  no  sooner  observed  but  she  made 
her  Advantage  of  it,  and  began  a  Discourse  to  me  concern- 
ing Love  and  Honour,  as  they  both  are  followed  by  Pre- 
tenders, and  the  real  Votaries  to  them.  When  she  [had] 
discussed  these  Points  in  a  Discourse,  which  I  verily  be- 
lieve was  as  learned  as  the  best  Philosopher  in  Europe  could 
possibly  make,  she  asked  me  whether  she  was  so  happy  as 
to  fall  in  with  my  Sentiments  on  these  important  Particulars. 
Her  Confident  sat  by  her,  and  upon  my  being  in  the  last 
Confusion  and  Silence,  this  malicious  Aid  of  hers,  turning 
to  her,  says,  I  am  very  glad  to  observe  Sir  Roger  pauses 
upon  this  Subject,  and  seems  resolved  to  deliver  all  his 
Sentiments  upon  the  Matter  which  he  pleases  to  speak. 
They  both  kept  their  Countenances,  and  after  I  had  sat 
half  an  Hour  meditating  how  to  behave  before  such  pro- 
found Casuists,  I  rose  up  and  took  my  Leave.  Chance 
has  since  that  time  thrown  me  very  often  in  her  Way,  and 
she  as  often  has  directed  a  Discourse  to  me  which  I  do  not 
understand.  This  Barbarity  has  kept  me  ever  at  a  Dis- 
tance from  the  most  beautiful  Object  my  Eyes  ever  beheld. 
It  is  thus  also  she  deals  with  all  Mankind,  and  you  must 
make  Love  to  her,  as  you  would  conquer  the  Sphinx,  by 
posing  her.  But  were  she  like  other  Women,  and  that 
there  were  any  talking  to  her,  how  constant  must  the  Pleas- 
ure of  that  Man  be,  who  could  converse  with  a  Creature 

But,  after  all,  you  may  be  sure  her  Heart  is  fixed  on 

some  one  or  other;  and  yet  I  have  been  credibly  informed  ; 
but  who  can  believe  half  that  is  said  !  After  she  had  done 
speaking  to  me,  she  put  her  Hand  to  her  Bosom,  and  ad- 
justed her  Tucker.  Then  she  cast  her  Eyes  a  little  down, 
upon  my  beholding  her  too  earnestly.  They  say  she  sings 


96      Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

excellently  :  her  Voice  in  her  ordinary  Speech  has  some- 
thing in  it  inexpressibly  sweet.  You  must  know  I  dined 
with  her  at  a  publick  Table  the  Day  after  I  first  saw  her, 
and  she  helped  me  to  some  Tansy  in  the  Eye  of  all  the 
Gentlemen  in  the  Country  :  She  has  certainly  the  finest 
Hand  of  any  Woman  in  the  World.  I  can  assure  you, 
Sir,  were  you  to  behold  her,  you  would  be  in  the  same 
Condition  ;  for  as  her  Speech  is  Music,  her  Form  is  An- 
gelick.  But  I  find  I  grow  irregular  while  I  am  talking  of 
her;  but  indeed  it  would  be  Stupidity  to  be  unconcerned  at 
such  Perfection.  Oh  the  excellent  Creature,  she  is  as  in- 
imitable to  all  Women,  as  she  is  inaccessible  to  all  Men." 
I  found  my  Friend  begin  to  rave,  and  insensibly  led  him 
towards  the  House  that  we  might  be  joined  by  some  other 
Company  ;  and  am  convinced  that  the  Widow  is  the  Secret 
Cause  of  all  that  Inconsistency  which  appears  in  some 
Parts  of  my  Friend's  Discourse;  tho'  he  has  so  much 
Command  of  himself  as  not  directly  to  mention  her,  yet 
according  to  that  of  Martial,  which  one  knows  not  how  to 
enter  in  English,  Dum  facet  bane  loquitur.  I  shall  end  this 
Paper  with  that  whole  Epigram,  which  represents  with 
much  Humour  my  honest  FYiend's  Condition. 

"  Quicquid  agit  Rufus  nihil  est  nisi  N&via  Rufo, 

Si  gaudet,  si  flet,  si  facet,  hanc  loquitur  : 
Ccenat,  propinat,  poscit,  negat,  annuit,  una  est 

Ntevia  ;  Si  non  sit  N<evia  mutus  erit. 
Scriberet  hesterna  Patri  cum  Luce  Salutem, 
lux,  inquit,  Ntevia  lumen,  ave" 


Let  Rufus  weep,  rejoice,  stand,  sit  or  walk, 
Still  he  can  nothing  but  of  N<zvia  talk  ; 
Let  him  eat,  drink,  ask  Questions,  or  dispute, 
Still  he  must  speak  of  Ncevia,  or  be  mute. 
He  writ  to  his  Father,  ending  with  this  Line, 
I  am,  my  Lovely  Ncevia,  ever  thine. 

(The  Spectator,  London,  ////.) 


Mercy  and  Not  justice          97 


MERCY  AND  NOT  JUSTICE 

HENRY  FIELDING 

'  I  AHE    tea-table    was    scarce    removed    before    Western 
lugged  All  worthy  out  of  the  room,  telling  him   he 
had  business  of  consequence  to  impart,  and  must  speak  to 
him  that  instant  in  private  before  he  forgot  it. 

The  lovers  were  now  alone,  and  it  will,  I  question  not, 
appear  strange  to  many  readers,  that  those  who  had  so  much 
to  say  to  one  another  when  danger  and  difficulty  attended 
their  conversation,  and  who  seemed  so  eager  to  rush  into 
each  other's  arms  when  so  many  bars  lay  in  their  way,  now 
that  with  safety  they  were  at  liberty  to  say  or  do  whatever 
they  pleased,  should  both  remain  for  some  time  silent  and 
motionless ;  insomuch  that  a  stranger  of  moderate  sagacity 
might  have  concluded  they  were  mutually  indifferent ;  but 
so  it  was,  however  strange  it  may  seem ;  both  sat  with  their 
eyes  cast  downwards  on  the  ground,  and  for  some  minutes 
continued  in  perfect  silence. 

Mr.  Jones  during  this  interval  attempted  once  or  twice 
to  speak,  but  was  absolutely  incapable,  muttering  only,  or 
rather  sighing  out,  some  broken  words  ;  when  Sophia  at 
length,  partly  out  of  pity  to  him,  and  partly  to  turn  the  dis- 
course from  the  subject  which  she  knew  well  enough  he 
was  endeavouring  to  open,  said  — 

u  Sure,  sir,  you  are  the  most  fortunate  man  in  the  world 
in  this  discovery."  "And  can  you  really,  madam,  think 
me  so  fortunate,"  said  Jones,  sighing, "  while  I  have  in- 
curred your  displeasure  ?  " — "  Nay,  sir,"  says  she,  "  as  to  that 
you  best  know  whether  you  have  deserved  it."  "  Indeed, 
madam,"  answered  he,  "  you  yourself  are  as  well  apprized 
of  all  my  demerits.  Mrs.  Miller  has  acquainted  you  with 
the  whole  truth.  O  !  my  Sophia,  am  I  never  to  hope  for 
forgiveness  ?  " — "  I  think,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  she,  "  I  may 
almost  depend  on  your  own  justice,  and  leave  it  to  yourself 
to  pass  sentence  on  your  own  conduct." — "Alas! 


98     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

madam  !  "  answered  he,  "  it  is  mercy  and  not  justice,  which 
I    implore   at  your  hands.     Justice  I  know  must  condemn 
me. — Yet  not  for  the  letter  I  sent  to  Lady  Bellaston.     Of 
that  I  most  solemnly  declare  you  have  had  a  true  account." 
He  then  insisted  much  on  the  security  given  him  by  Nightin- 
gale of  a  fair  pretence  for  breaking  off,  if,  contrary  to  their 
expectations,  her  ladyship  should  have  accepted  his  offer; 
but   confest  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  a   great  indiscre- 
tion to  put  such  a  letter  as  that  into  her  power,  "  which," 
said   he,  "  I  have  dearly  paid   for,  in  the  effect  it  has  had 
upon    you."     "  I  do  not,  I   cannot,"  says   she,   "  believe 
otherwise  of  that  letter  than  you  would  have  me.      My 
conduct,  I   think,  shows  you  clearly  I  do  not  believe  there 
is   much  in  that.     And  yet,  Mr.  Jones,  have  I  not  enough 
to  resent  ?     After  what  passed  at  Upton,  so  soon  to  engage 
in    a  new  amour  with  another  woman,  while  I  fancied  and 
you  pretended,  your  heart   was  bleeding  for  me  ?     Indeed, 
you  have   acted  strangely.     Can  I  believe  the  passion  you 
have   profest  to   me  to  be   sincere  ?     Or,   if  I   can,  what 
happiness  can  I  assure  myself  of  with  a  man  capable  of  so 
much   inconstancy  ? "     "  O  !  my  Sophia,"   cries  he,  "  do 
not  doubt  the  sincerity  of  the  purest  passion  that  ever  in- 
flamed a  human  breast.     Think,  most  adorable  creature,  of 
my   most  unhappy  situation,   my   despair.      Could  I,  my 
Sophia,  have  flattered  myself  with  the  most  distant  hopes  of 
being   ever  permitted  to  throw  myself  at  your  feet  in  the 
manner  I  do  now,  it  would  not  have  been  in  the  power  of 
any  other  woman  to   have  inspired  a  thought  which  the 
severest   chastity   could  have  condemned.     Inconstancy  to 
you !     O  Sophia !  if  you  can  have  goodness  enough  to  par- 
don what  is  past,  do  not  let  any  cruel  future  apprehensions 
shut  your  mercy   against    me.     No    repentance  was   ever 
more  sincere.     O  !  let  it  reconcile  me  to  my  heaven  in  this 
dear  bosom."     "Sincere  repentance,  Mr.  Jones,"  answered 
she,  "  will  obtain  the  pardon  of  a  sinner,  but  it  is  from  one 
who  is  a  perfect  judge  of  that  sincerity.     A  human  mind 
may    be   imposed  on ;  nor  is  there  any  infallible  method  to 
prevent  it.     You   must  expect,  however,  that  if  I    can  be 
prevailed   on  by  your  repentance  to  pardon  you,  I  will  at 
least  insist  on  the  strongest  proof  of  its  sincerity."     "  O  ! 


Mercy  and  Not  Justice          99 

name  any  proof  in  my  power,"  answered  Jones  eagerly. 
"Time,"  replied  she,  "  time  alone,  Mr.  Jones,  can  con- 
vince me  that  you  are  a  true  penitent,  and  have  resolved  to 
abandon  these  vicious  courses,  which  I  should  detest  you 
for,  if  I  imagined  you  capable  of  persevering  in  them." 
u  Do  not  imagine  it,"  cries  Jones.  "  On  my  knees,  I  en- 
treat, I  implore  your  confidence,  a  confidence  which  it  shall 
be  the  business  of  my  life  to  deserve."  "  Let  it  then," 
said  she,  "  be  the  business  of  some  part  of  your  life  to  show 
me  you  deserve  it.  I  think  I  have  been  explicit  enough  in 
assuring  you  that,  when  I  see  you  merit  my  confidence, 
you  will  obtain  it.  After  what  is  past,  sir,  can  you  expect  I 
should  take  you  upon  your  word  ?  " 

He  replied,  "  Don't  believe  me  upon  my  word ;  I  have 
a  better  security,  a  pledge  for  my  constancy,  which  it  is 
impossible  to  see  and  to  doubt."  "  What  is  that  ?  "  said 
Sophia,  a  little  surprised.  "  I  will  show  you,  my  charming 
angel,"  cried  Jones,  seizing  her  hand  and  carrying  her  to 
the  glass.  "  There,  behold  it  there  in  that  lovely  figure,  in 
that  face,  that  shape,  those  eyes,  that  mind  which  shines 
through  these  eyes  ;  can  the  man  who  shall  be  in  possession 
of  these  be  inconstant  ?  Impossible !  my  Sophia ;  they 
would  fix  a  Dorimant,  a  Lord  Rochester.  You  could  not 
doubt  it,  if  you  could  see  yourself  with  any  eyes  but  your 
own."  Sophia  blushed  and  half  smiled;  but,  forcing  again 
her  brow  into  a  frown — "If  I  am  to  judge,"  said  she,  "  of 
the  future  by  the  past,  my  image  will  no  more  remain  in 
your  heart  when  I  am  out  of  your  sight,  than  it  will  in  tnis 
glass  when  I  am  out  of  the  room."  "  By  heaven,  by  all 
that  is  sacred  !  "  said  Jones,  "  it  never  was  out  of  my  heart. 
The  delicacy  of  your  sex  cannot  conceive  the  grossness  of 
ours,  nor  how  little  one  sort  of  amour  has  to  do  with  the 
heart."  "  I  will  never  marry  a  man,"  said  Sophia,  very 
gravely,  "  who  shall  not  learn  refinement  enough  to  be  as 
incapable  as  I  am  myself  of  making  such  a  distinction." 
"  I  will  learn  it,"  said  Jones.  "  I  have  learnt  it  already. 
The  first  moment  of  hope  that  my  Sophia  might  be  my  wife 
taught  it  me  at  once  ;  and  all  the  rest  of  her  sex  from  that 
moment  became  as  little  the  object  of  desire  to  my 
sense  as  of  passion  to  my  heart."  "Well,"  said  Sophia, 


ioo     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

"  the  proof  of  this  must  be  from  time.  Your  situation, 
Mr.  Jones,  is  now  altered,  and  I  assure  you  I  have  great 
satisfaction  in  the  alteration.  You  will  now  want  no 
opportunity  of  being  near  me,  and  convincing  me  that  your 
mind  is  altered  too."  "  O  !  my  angel,"  cries  Jones,  "  how 
shall  I  thank  thy  goodness  !  And  are  you  so  good  to  own 
that  you  have  a  satisfaction  in  my  prosperity  ? — Believe 
me,  believe  me,  madam,  it  is  you  alone  have  given  a  relish 
to  that  prosperity,  since  I  owe  it  to  the  dear  hope — O  !  my 
Sophia,  let  it  not  be  a  distant  one. — I  will  be  all  obedience 
to  your  commands.  I  will  not  dare  to  press  anything  fur- 
ther than  you  permit  me.  Yet  let  me  entreat  you  to  ap- 
point a  short  trial.  O  !  tell  me  when  I  may  expect  you 
will  be  convinced  of  what  is  most  solemnly  true."  "  When 
I  have  gone  voluntarily  thus  far,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  she,  "  I 
expect  not  to  be  pressed.  Nay,  I  will  not." — "  O  !  don't 
look  unkindly  thus,  my  Sophia,"  cries  he.  "  I  do  not,  I 
dare  not  press  you. — Yet  permit  me  at  least  once  more  to 
beg  you  would  fix  the  period.  O  !  consider  the  impatience 
of  love." — "  A  twelvemonth,  perhaps,"  said  she.  "  O  ! 
my  Sophia,"  cries  he,  "  you  have  named  an  eternity." — 
"  Perhaps  it  may  be  something  sooner,"  says  she ;  "  I  will 
not  be  teased.  If  your  passion  for  me  be  what  I  would 
have  it,  I  think  you  may  now  be  easy." — "  Easy.  Sophia, 
call  not  such  an  exulting  happiness  as  mine  by  so  cold  a 
name. — O  !  transporting  thought !  am  I  not  assured  that 
the  blessed  day  will  come,  when  I  shall  call  you  mine; 
when  fears  shall  be  no  more ;  when  I  shall  have  that  dear, 
that  vast,  that  exquisite,  ecstatic  delight  of  making  my 
Sophia  happy  ?  " — "  Indeed,  sir,"  said  she,  "  that  day  is  in 
your  own  power" — u  O  !  my  dear,  my  divine  angel," 
cried  he,  "  these  words  have  made  me  mad  with  joy — But 
I  must,  I  will  thank  those  dear  lips  which  have  made  me  mad 
with  joy. — But  I  must,  I  will  thank  those  dear  lips  which 
have  so  sweetly  pronounced  my  bliss."  He  then  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  with  an  ardour  he  had  never  ven- 
tured before. 

At  this  instant  Western,  who  had  stood  some  time  lis- 
tening, burst  into  the  room,  and,  with  his  hunting  voice 
and  phrase,  cried  out,  "  To  her,  boy,  to  her,  go  to  her. — 


Mercy  and  Not  Justice         101 

That's  it,  little  honeys,  O  that's  it  !  Well !  what,  is  it  all 
over  ?  Hath  she  appointed  the  day,  boy  ?  What,  shall  it 
be  to-morrow  or  next  day  ?  It  shan't  be  put  off  a  minute 
longer  than  next  day,  I  am  resolved." 

(The  History  of  Tom  Jones ;  a  Foundling,  London, 


102     Love  in    Literature   and  Art 


EXQUISITE  PROPRIETY 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON 

Thursday  morning,  October  igth. 

A  FTER  breakfast,  first  one,  then  another  dropt  away, 
and  left  only  Sir  Charles  and  me  together.  Lucy 
was  the  last  that  went ;  and  the  moment  she  was  withdrawn, 
while  I  was  thinking  to  retire  to  dress,  he  placed  himself  by 
me :  Think  me  not  abrupt,  my  dearest  Miss  Byron,  said  he, 
that  I  take  almost  the  only  opportunity  which  has  offered 
of  entering  upon  a  subject  that  is  next  my  heart. 

I  found  my  face  glow.     I  was  silent. 

You  have  given  me  hope,  madam :  All  your  friends 
encourage  that  hope.  I  love,  I  revere  your  friends.  What 
I  have  now  to  petition  for,  is,  A  confirmation  of  the  hope 
I  have  presumed  upon.  CAN  you,  madam  (the  Female 
delicacy  is  more  delicate  than  that  of  man  can  be)  unequally 
as  you  may  think  yourself  circumstanced  with  a  man  who 
owns  that  once  he  could  have  devoted  himself  to  another 
Lady  ?  CAN  you  say,  that  the  man  before  you  is  the  man 
whom  you  can,  whom  you  do,  prefer  to  any  other  ? 

He  stopt ;  expecting  my  answer. 

After  some  hesitations,  I  have  been  accustomed,  Sir,  said 
I,  by  those  friends  whom  you  so  deservedly  value,  to  speak 
nothing  but  the  simplest  truth.  In  an  article  of  this  mo- 
ment, I  should  be  inexcusable,  if 

I  stopt.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  my  face.  For  my 
life  I  could  not  speak ;  yet  wished  to  be  able  to  speak 

If- — If  what,  madam  ?  and  he  snatched  my  hand,  bowed 
his  face  upon  it,  held  it  there,  not  looking  up  to  mine.  I 
could  then  speak — If  thus  urged,  and  by  SIR  CHARLES 
GRANDISON — I  did  not  speak  my  heart — I  answer — Sir — I 
CAN — I  DO.  I  wanted,  I  thought,  just  then  to  shrink 
into  myself. 

He  kissed  my  hand  with  fervour;  dropt  down  on  one 
knee ;  again  kissed  it — You  have  laid  me,  madam,  under 


Fragonard. 


DECLARATION   OF   LOVE 


Exquisite  Propriety  103 

everlasting  obligation  :  And  will  you  permit  me  to  beg  an 
early  day  ? — I  have  many  affairs  on  my  hands  ;  many  more 
in  design,  now  I  am  come,  as  I  hope,  to  settle  in  my  native 
country  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  My  chief  glory  will  be, 
to  behave  commendably  in  the  private  life.  I  wish  not  to 
be  a  public  man ;  and  it  must  be  a  very  particular  call,  for 
the  Service  of  my  King  and  Country  united,  that  shall 
draw  me  out  into  public  notice.  Make  me,  madam,  soon 
the  happy  husband  I  hope  to  be.  I  prescribe  not  to  you 
the  time :  But  you  are  above  empty  forms.  May  I  pre- 
sume to  hope,  it  will  be  before  the  end  of  a  month  to 
come  ? 

He  had  forgot  himself.  He  said,  he  would  not  prescribe 
to  me. 

After  some  involuntary  hesitations — I  am  afraid  of  noth- 
ing so  much  just  now,  Sir,  said  I,  as  appearing,  to  a  man 
of  your  honour  and  penetration,  affected.  Rise,  Sir,  I  be- 
seech you  !  I  cannot  bear 

I  will,  madam,  and  rise  as  well  as  kneel  to  thank  you, 
when  you  have  answered  a  question  so  very  important  to 
my  happiness. 

Before  I  could  resume,  Only  believe  me,  madam,  said 
he,  that  my  urgency  is  not  the  insolent  urgency  of  one  who 
imagines  a  Lady  will  receive  as  a  compliment  his  impatience. 
And  if  you  will  have  no  scruple  that  you  think  of  high  im- 
portance, add,  I  beseech  you,  to  the  obligations  you  have 
laid  him  under  to  your  condescending  goodness  (and  add 
with  that  frankness  of  heart  which  has  distinguished  you  in 
my  eyes  above  all  women)  the  very  high  one,  of  an  early  day. 

I  looked  down — I  could  not  look  up — I  was  afraid  of 
being  thought  affected — Yet  how  could  I  so  soon  think  of 
obliging  him  ? 

He  proceeded — You  are  silent,  madam  ! — Propitious  be 
your  silence  !  Allow  me  to  enquire  of  your  Aunt,  for  your 
kind,  your  condescending  acquiescence.  I  will  not  now 
urge  you  further :  I  will  be  all  hope. 

Let  me  say,  Sir,  that  I  must  not  be  precipitated.  These 
are  very  early  days. 

Much  more  was  in  my  mind  to  say ;  but  I  hesitated — I 
could  not  speak.  Surely,  my  dear  Ladies,  it  was  too  early 


104     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

an  urgency.  And  can  a  woman  be  wholly  unobservant  of 
custom,  and  the  Laws  of"  her  Sex  ? — Something  is  due  to 
the  fashion  in  our  dress,  however  absurd  that  dress  might 
have  appeared  in  the  last  age  (as  theirs  do  to  us)  or  may  in 
the  next :  And  shall  not  those  customs  which  have  their 
foundation  in  modesty,  and  are  characteristic  of  the  gentler 
Sex,  be  entitled  to  excuse,  and  more  than  excuse  ? 

He  saw  my  confusion.  Let  me  not,  my  dearest  life, 
distress  you,  said  he.  Beautiful  as  your  emotion  is,  I  can- 
not enjoy  it,  if  it  gives  you  pain.  Yet  is  the  question  so 
important  to  me ;  so  much  is  my  heart  concerned  in  the 
favourable  answer  I  hope  for  from  your  goodness  ;  that  I 
must  not  let  this  opportunity  slip,  except  it  be  your  pleas- 
ure that  I  attend  your  determination  from  Mrs.  Selby's 
mouth. — Yet  that  I  choose  neither ;  because  I  presume  for 
more  favour  from  your  own,  than  you  will,  on  cold  delib- 
eration, allow  your  Aunt  to  shew  me.  Love  will  plead  for 
its  faithful  votary  in  a  single  breast,  when  consultation  on 
the  supposed  fit  and  unfit,  the  object  absent,  will  produce 
delay.  But  I  will  retire,  for  two  moments.  You  shall  be 
my  prisoner  meantime.  Not  a  soul  shall  come  in  to  inter- 
rupt us,  unless  it  be  at  your  call.  I  will  return,  and  re- 
ceive your  determination ;  and  if  that  be  the  fixing  of  my 
happy  day,  how  you  will  rejoice  me  ! 

While  I  was  debating  within  myself,  whether  I  should 
be  angry  or  pleased,  he  returned,  and  found  me  walking 
about  the  room. — Soul  of  my  hope,  said  he,  taking  with 
reverence  my  hand  ;  I  now  presume  that  you  can  and  will 
oblige  me. 

You  have  given  me  no  time,  Sir  :  But  let  me  request, 
that  you  will  not  expect  an  answer,  in  relation  to  the  early 
day  you  so  early  ask  for,  till  after  the  receipt  of  your  next 
Letters  from  Italy.  You  see  how  the  admirable  Lady  is 
urged ;  how  reluctantly  she  has  given  them  but  distant 
hopes  of  complying  with  their  wishes.  I  should  be  glad 
to  wait  for  the  next  Letters ;  for  those,  at  least,  which  will 
be  an  answer  to  yours,  acquainting  them,  that  there  is  a 
woman  with  whom  you  think  you  could  be  happy.  I  am 
earnest  in  this  request,  Sir.  Think  it  not  owing  to  affec- 
tation. 


Exquisite    Propriety  105 

I  acquiesce,  madam.  The  answer  to  those  Letters  will 
soon  be  here.  It  will  indeed  be  some  time  before  I  can 
receive  a  reply  to  that  I  wrote  in  answer  to  Jeronymo's 
last  Letter.  I  impute  not  affectation  to  my  dearest  Miss 
Byron.  I  can  easily  comprehend  your  motive  :  It  is  a 
generous  one.  But  it  befits  me  to  say,  that  the  next  Let- 
ters from  Italy,  whatever  may  be  their  contents,  can  now 
make  no  alteration  on  my  part.  Have  I  not  declared  my- 
self to  your  friends,  to  you,  and  to  the  world  ? 

Indeed,  sir,  they  may  make  an  alteration  on  mine,  highly 
as  I  think  of  the  honour  Sir  Charles  Grandison  does  me  by 
his  good  opinion.  For,  pardon  me,  should  the  most  ex- 
cellent of  women  think  of  resuming  a  place  in  your 
heart 

Let  me  interrupt  you,  madam. — It  cannot  be^  that  Lady 
Clementina,  proceeding,  as  she  has  done,  on  motives  of 
piety,  zealous  in  her  religion,  and  all  her  relations  now 
earnest  in  another  man's  favour,  can  alter  her  mind.  I 
should  not  have  acted  with  justice,  with  gratitude,  to  her, 
had  I  not  tried  her  stedfastness .  by  every  way  I  could 
devise  :  Nor  in  justice  to  both  ladies,  would  I  allow  myself 
to  apply  for  your  favour,  till  I  had  her  resolution  confirmed 
to  me  under  her  own  hand  after  my  arrival  in  England. 
But  were  it  now  possible  that  she  should  vary,  and  were 
you,  madam,  to  hold  your  determination  in  my  favour  sus- 
pended ;  the  consequence  would  be  thus  :  I  should  never, 
while  that  suspense  lasted,  be  the  husband  of  any  woman  on 
earth. 

I  hope,  sir,  you  will  not  be  displeased.  I  did  not  think 
you  would  so  soon  be  so  very  earnest.  But  this,  Sir,  I  say, 
Let  me  have  reason  to  think,  that  my  happiness  will  not  be 
the  misfortune  of  a  more  excellent  woman,  and  it  shall  be  my 
endeavour  to  make  the  man  happy  who  only  can  make  me  so. 

He  clasped  me  in  his  arms  with  an  ardor — that  displeased 
me  not — on  reflection. — But  at  the  time  startled  me.  He 
then  thanked  me  again  on  one  knee.  I  held  out  the  hand 
he  held  not  in  his,  with  intent  to  raise  him  ;  for  I  could  not 
speak.  He  received  it  as  a  token  of  favour ;  kissed  it  with 
ardor;  arose;  again  pressed  my  cheek  with  his  lips.  1 
was  too  much  surprised  to  repulse  him  with  anger.  .  .  . 


io6     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Sir  Charles,  my  Uncle,  and  Mr.  Deane  took  a  little  walk, 
and  returned  just  as  dinner  was  ready.  My  Uncle  took  me 
aside,  and  whispered  to  me ;  I  am  glad  at  my  heart  and 
soul  the  ice  is  broken.  This  is  a  man  of  true  spirit — Ads- 
heart,  Harriet,  you  will  be  Lady  Grandison  in  a  fortnight, 
at  furthest,  I  hope.  You  have  had  a  charming  confabula- 
tion, I  doubt  not.  I  can  guess  you  have,  by  Sir  Charles's 
declaring  himself  more  and  more  delighted  with  you.  And 
he  owns  that  he  put  the  question  to  you. — Hey,  Harriet  ! 
— Smiling  in  my  face. 

Every  one's  eyes  were  upon  me.  Sir  Charles,  I  be- 
lieve, saw  me  look  as  if  I  were  apprehensive  of  my  uncle's 
raillery.  He  came  up  to  us  :  My  dear  Miss  Byron,  said 
he,  in  my  uncle's  hearing,  I  have  owned  to  Mr.  Selby,  the 
request  I  presumed  to  make  you.  I  am  afraid  that  he,  as 
well  as  you,  think  me  too  bold  and  forward.  If,  madam, 
you  do,  I  ask  your  pardon :  My  hopes  shall  always  be 
controlled  by  your  pleasure. 

This  made  my  uncle  complaisant  to  me.  I  was  re- 
assured. I  was  pleased  to  be  so  seasonably  relieved. 

(The  History  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  London, 


Leslie. 


UNCLE   TOBY    AND   THE   WIDOW 


Uncle    Toby  and  the    Widow     107 


MY   UNCLE   TOBY  AND  THE  WIDOW  WAD- 
MAN 

LAURENCE  STERNE 

T  AM  half  distracted,  Captain  Shandy,  said  Mrs.  Wad- 
man,  holding  up  her  cambric  handkerchief  to  her  left 
eye,  as  she  approached  the  door  of  my  uncle  Toby's  sentry- 
box  ;  a  mote,  or  sand,  or  something,  I  know  not  what,  has 
got  into  this  eye  of  mine  ;  do  look  into  it :  it  is  not  in  the 
white. 

In  saying  which  Mrs.  Wadman  edged  herself  close  in 
beside  my  uncle  Toby,  and  squeezing  herself  down  upon 
the  corner  of  his  bench,  she  gave  him  an  opportunity  of 
doing  it  without  rising  up.  Do  look  into  it,  said  she. 

Honest  soul !  thou  didst  look  into  it  with  as  much  inno- 
cency  of  heart  as  ever  child  looked  into  a  raree  show-box ; 
and  'twere  as  much  a  sin  to  have  hurt  thee. 

If  a  man  will  be  peeping  of  his  own  accord  into  things 
of  that  nature,  I've  nothing  to  say  to  it. 

My  uncle  Toby  never  did  ;  and  I  will  answer  for  him, 
that  he  would  have  sat  quietly  upon  a  sofa  from  June  to 
January  (which,  you  know,  takes  in  both  the  hot  and  cold 
months)  with  an  eye  as  fine  as  the  Thracian  Rhodope's 
beside  him,  without  being  able  to  tell  whether  it  was  a 
black  or  a  blue  one. 

The  difficulty  was  to  get  my  uncle  Toby  to  look  at  one 
at  all. 

'Tis  surmounted.  And  I  see  him  yonder,  with  his  pipe 
pendulous  in  his  hand,  and  the  ashes  falling  out  of  it,  look- 
ing, and  looking,  then  rubbing  his  eyes,  and  looking  again, 
with  twice  the  good  nature  that  ever  Galileo  look'd  for  a 
spot  in  the  sun. 

In  vain  !  for  by  all  the  powers  which  animate  the  organ, 
Widow  Wadman's  left  eye  shines  this  moment  as  lucid  as 
her  right ;  there  is  neither  mote,  nor  sand,  nor  dust,  nor 
chaff,  nor  speck,  nor  particle  of  opake  matter  floating  in  it. 
There  is  nothing,  my  dear  paternal  uncle  !  but  one  lam- 


io8     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

bent  delicious  fire  furtively  shooting  out  from  every  part  of 
it,  in  all  directions,  into  thine. 

If  thou  lookest,  my  uncle  Toby,  in  search  of  this  mote 
one  moment  longer,  thou  art  undone. 

An  eye  is,  for  all  the  world,  exactly  like  a  cannon,  in 
this  respect,  That  it  is  not  so  much  the  eye  or  the  cannon, 
in  themselves,  as  it  is  the  carriage  of  the  eye,  and  the  car- 
riage of  the  cannon ;  by  which  both  the  one  and  the  other 
are  enabled  to  do  so  much  execution.  I  don't  think  the 
comparison  a  bad  one :  however,  as  'tis  made  and  placed  at 
the  head  of  the  chapter,  as  much  for  use  as  ornament,  all 
I  desire  in  return  is,  that  wherever  I  speak  of  Mrs.  Wad- 
man's  eyes  (except  once  in  the  next  period)  that  you  will 
keep  it  in  your  fancy. 

I  protest,  Madam,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  I  can  see  noth- 
ing whatever  in  your  eye. 

It  is  not  in  the  white,  said  Mrs.  Wadman.  My  uncle 
Toby  looked  with  might  and  main  into  the  pupil. 

Now,  of  all  the  eyes  which  ever  were  created ;  from 
your  own,  Madam,  up  to  those  of  Venus  herself,  which 
certainly  were  as  venereal  a  pair  of  eyes  as  ever  stood  in  a 
head,  there  never  was  an  eye  of  them  all  so  fitted  to  rob 
my  uncle  Toby  of  his  repose,  as  the  very  eye  at  which  he 
was  looking  •,  it  was  not,  Madam,  a  rolling  eye,  a  romping, 
or  a  wanton  one ;  nor  was  it  an  eye  sparkling,  petulant,  or 
imperious,  of  high  claims  and  terrifying  exactions,  which 
would  have  curdled  at  once  that  milk  of  human  nature,  of 
which  my  uncle  Toby  was  made  up ;  but  'twas  an  eye  full 
of  gentle  salutations,  and  soft  responses,  speaking,  not  like 
the  trumpet-stop  of  some  ill-made  organ,  in  which  many  an 
eye  I  talk  to  holds  coarse  converse,  but  whispering  soft, 
like  the  last  low  accents  of  an  expiring  saint,  "  How  can 
you  live  comfortless,  Captain  Shandy,  and  alone,  without  a 
bosom  to  lean  your  head  on,  or  trust  your  cares  to  ?  " 

It  was  an  eye 

But  I  shall  be  in  love  with  it  myself,  if  I  say  another 
word  about  it. 

It  did  my  uncle  Toby's  business. 

(Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy,  York,  //jp.) 


A  Lucky   Mis  fake  109 


A  LUCKY  MISTAKE 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

Enter  SIR  CHARLES  MARLOW  and  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

O/&  CHAS.     What  a  situation  am  I  in  !     If  what  you 
say  appears  I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.     If  what  he 
says  be  true,  I  shall  then  lose  one  that,  of  all  others,  I  most 
wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hard.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation,  and  to 
shew  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I  directed,  you 
shall  hear  his  explicit  declaration.  But  he  comes. 

Sir  Chas.  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to  the  ap- 
pointment. [Exit  SIR  CHARLES. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar.  Tho'  prepared  for  setting  out,  I  come  once  more 
to  take  leave ;  nor  did  I,  till  this  moment,  know  the  pain  I 
feel  in  the  separation. 

Miss  Hard,  [in  her  own  natural  manner~\.  I  believe 
these  sufferings  cannot  be  very  great,  Sir,  which  you  can  so 
easily  remove.  A  day  or  two  longer,  perhaps,  might  lessen 
your  uneasiness,  by  shewing  the  little  value  of  what  you 
now  think  proper  to  regret. 

Mar.  [aside}.  This  girl  every  moment  improves  upon 
me.  [  To  her.\  It  must  not  be,  Madam.  I  have  already 
trifled  too  long  with  my  heart.  My  very  pride  begins  to 
submit  to  my  passion.  The  disparity  of  education  and  for- 
tune, the  anger  of  a  parent,  and  the  contempt  of  my  equals, 
begin  to  lose  their  weight ;  and  nothing  can  restore  me  to 
myself,  but  this  painful  effort  of  resolution. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  go,  Sir.  I'll  urge  nothing  more  to 
detain  you.  Tho'  my  family  be  as  good  as  hers  you  came 
down  to  visit,  and  my  education,  I  hope,  not  inferior,  what 
are  these  advantages  without  equal  affluence  ?  I  must  re- 
main contented  with  the  slight  approbation  of  imputed 


no     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

merit ;  I  must  have  only  the  mockery  of  your  addresses, 
while  all  your  serious  aims  are  fix'd  on  Fortune. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE  and  SIR  CHARLES  MARLOW  from 
behind. 

Sir  Chas.     Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hard.  Ay,  ay,  make  no  noise.  I'll  engage  my  Kate 
covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Mar.  By  heavens,  Madam,  fortune  was  ever  my  small- 
est consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first  caught  my  eye  ;  for 
who  could  see  that  without  emotion.  But  every  moment 
that  I  converse  with  you,  steals  in  some  new  grace,  height- 
ens the  picture,  and  gives  it  stronger  expression.  What  at 
first  seem'd  rustic  plainness,  now  appears  refin'd  simplicity. 
What  seem'd  forward  assurance,  now  strikes  me  as  the  re- 
sult of  a  courageous  innocence,  and  conscious  virtue. 

Sir  Chas.     What  can  it  mean  !      He  amazes  me  ! 

Hard.     I  told  you  how  it  would  be.     Hush ! 

Mar.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  Madam,  and  I 
have  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  discernment,  when 
he  sees  you,  to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hard.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  cannot  detain 
you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a  connection,  in  which 
there  is  the  smallest  room  for  repentance  ?  Do  you  think 
I  would  take  the  mean  advantage  of  a  transient  passion,  to 
load  you  with  confusion  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  rel- 
ish that  happiness  which  was  acquired  by  lessening  yours  ? 

Mar.  By  all  that's  good,  I  can  have  no  happiness  but 
what's  in  your  power  to  grant  me.  Nor  shall  I  ever  feel 
repentance,  but  in  not  having  seen  your  merits  before.  I 
will  stay,  even  contrary  to  your  wishes;  and  tho'  you 
should  persist  to  shun  me,  I  will  make  my  respectful  assi- 
duities atone  for  the  levity  of  my  past  conduct. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you  to  desist.  As  our 
acquaintance  began,  so  let  it  end  in  indifference.  I  might 
have  given  an  hour  or  two  to  levity  ;  but  seriously,  Mr. 
Marlow,  do  you  think  I  could  ever  submit  to  a  connection, 
where  I  must  appear  mercenary,  and  you  imprudent  ?  Do 
you  think  I  could  ever  catch  at  the  confident  addresses  of  a 
secure  admirer? 


A  Lucky   Mistake  \  1 1 

Mar,  \_kneeling\.  Does  this  look  like  security  ?  Does 
this  look  like  confidence  ?  No,  Madam,  every  moment 
that  shows  me  your  merit,  only  serves  to  increase  my  diffi- 
dence and  confusion.  Here  let  me  continue 

Sir  Cbas.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  Charles,  Charles, 
how  hast  thou  deceived  me !  Is  this  your  indifference, 
your  uninteresting  conversation  ? 

Hard.  Your  cold  contempt ;  your  formal  interview  ? 
What  have  you  to  say  now  ? 

Mar.     That  I'm  all  amazement !     What  can  it  mean  ? 

Hard.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay  things  at 
pleasure.  That  you  can  address  a  lady  in  private,  and  deny 
it  in  public ;  that  you  have  one  story  for  us,  and  another 
for  my  daughter. 

Mar.     Daughter! — this  lady  your  daughter! 

Hard.  Yes,  Sir,  my  only  daughter.  My  Kate,  whose 
else  should  she  be. 

Mar.     Oh,  the  devil ! 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  Sir,  the  very  identical  tall  squinting 
lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me  for.  \_Curtesying. ~\  She 
that  you  addressed  as  the  mild,  modest,  sentimental  man 
of  gravity,  and  the  bold,  forward,  agreeable  rattle  of  the 
ladies'  club  ;  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Mar.  Zounds  !  there's  no  bearing  this  ;  it's  worse  than 
death. 

Miss  Hard.  In  which  of  your  characters,  Sir,  will  you 
give  us  leave  to  address  you  ?  As  the  faltering  gentleman, 
with  looks  on  the  ground,  that  speaks  just  to  be  heard,  and 
hates  hypocrisy  ;  or  the  loud  confident  creature,  that  keeps 
it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap,  and  old  Mrs.  Biddy  Buckskin, 
till  three  in  the  morning ;  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Mar.  O,  curse  on  my  noisy  head  !  I  never  attempted 
to  be  impudent  yet,  that  I  was  not  taken  down.  I  must 
be  gone. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall  not.  I 
see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  rejoiced  to  find  it.  You 
shall  not,  Sir,  I  tell  you.  I  know  she'll  forgive  you. 
Won't  you  forgive  him,  Kate !  We'll  all  forgive  you. 
Take  courage,  man. 

\_They  retire,  she  tormenting  him  to  the  back  scene. 


112     Love  in   Literature  and  -Art 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE  and  TONY. 

Mrs,  Hard.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.  Let  them  go,  I 
care  not. 

Hard.     Who  gone  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentleman,  Mr. 
Hastings,  from  town.  He  who  came  down  with  our  mod- 
est visitor  here. 

Sir  Chas.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings.  As 
worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not  have  made 
a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hard.  Then  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm  proud  of 
the  connection. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the  lady,  he 
has  not  taken  her  fortune,  that  remains  in  this  family  to 
console  us  for  her  loss. 

Hard.     Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so  mercenary  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  that's  my  affair  not  yours.  But  you 
know  if  your  son,  when  of  age  refuses  to  marry  his  cousin, 
her  whole  fortune  is  then  at  her  own  disposal. 

Hard.  Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and  she  has  not  thought 
proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hard,  [aside].  What,  returned  so  soon,  I  begin 
not  to  like  it. 

Hast.  \_to  HARDCASTLE].  For  my  late  attempt  to  fly  off 
with  your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  be  my  punish- 
ment. We  are  now  come  back,  to  appeal  from  your  jus- 
tice to  your  humanity.  By  her  father's  consent,  I  first 
paid  her  my  addresses,  and  our  passions  were  first  founded 
in  duty. 

Miss  Nev.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been  obliged  to  stoop 
to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an  hour  of  levity, 
I  was  ready  even  to  give  up  my  fortune  to  secure  my  choice. 
But  I  am  now  recover'd  from  the  delusion,  and  hope  from 
your  tenderness  what  is  denied  me  from  a  nearer  connec- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pshaw !  pshaw !  this  is  all  but  whining 
end  of  a  modern  novel. 


A  Lucky   Mistake  113 

Hard.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they  are  come  back 
to  reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony  boy.  Do  you 
refuse  this  lady's  hand  whom  I  now  offer  you  ? 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing  ?  You  know  I  can't 
refuse  her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 

Hard.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age,  boy,  was 
likely  to  conduce  to  your  improvement,  I  concurred  with 
your  mother's  desire  to  keep  it  secret.  But  since  I  find  she 
turns  it  to  a  wrong  use,  I  must  now  declare,  you  have  been 
of  age  these  three  months. 

Tony.     Of  age  !     Am  I  of  age,  father  ? 

Hard.     Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll  make  of  my 
liberty.  [  Taking  Miss  NEVILLE'S  kand.~\  Witness  all  men 
by  these  presents,  that  I,  Anthony  Lumpkin,  esquire,  of 
Blank  Place,  refuse  you,  Constantia  Neville,  Spinster,  of 
no  place  at  all,  for  my  true  and  lawful  wife.  So  Constantia 
Neville  may  marry  whom  she  pleases,  and  Tony  Lumpkin 
is  his  own  man  again. 

Sir  Chas.     O  brave  'squire  ! 

Hast.     My  worthy  friend  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.     My  undutiful  offspring  ! 

Mar.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy  sincerely. 
And  could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant  here  to  be  less 
arbitrary,  I  should  be  the  happiest  man  alive,  if  you  would 
return  me  the  favour. 

Hast,  [to  Miss  HARDCASTLE].  Come,  Madam,  you  are 
now  driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all  your  contrivances. 
I  know  you  like  him,  I'm  sure  he  loves  you,  and  you  must 
and  shall  have  him. 

Hard,  [joining  their  bands~\.  And  I  say  so  too.  And, 
Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife  as  she  has  a 
daughter,  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  repent  your  bargain. 
So  now  to  supper.  To-morrow  we  shall  gather  all  the 
poor  of  the  parish  about  us,  and  the  mistakes  of  the  night 
shall  be  crown'd  with  a  merry  morning  ;  so,  boy,  take  her : 
and  as  you  have  been  mistaken  in  the  mistress,  my  wish  is, 
that  you  may  never  be  mistaken  in  the  wife.  [Exeunt. 

{She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  London,  /77J.) 


ii4     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


A  SENTIMENTAL  LOVER 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 

July  IJth. 

,  I  am  not  deceived.  In  her  dark  eyes  I  read  a  gen- 
uine interest  in  me  and  in  my  fortunes.  Yes,  I  feel 
it,  and  I  may  believe  my  own  heart  which  tells  me — dare  I 
say  it  ? — dare  I  pronounce  the  divine  words — that  she  loves 
me ! 

That  she  loves  me  !  How  the  idea  exalts  me  in  my  own 
eyes  !  and  as  you  can  understand  my  feelings,  I  may  say  to 
you,  how  I  honour  myself  since  she  loves  me  ! 

Is  this  presumption,  or  is  it  the  consciousness  of  the 
truth  ?  I  do  not  know  a  man  able  to  supplant  me  in  the 
heart  of  Charlotte ;  and  yet  when  she  speaks  of  her  be- 
trothed with  so  much  warmth  and  affection,  I  feel  like  the 
soldier  who  has  been  stripped  of  his  honours,  and  deprived 
of  his  sword. 

July  rjth. 

How  my  heart  beats  when  by  accident  I  touch  her 
finger,  or  my  feet  meet  hers  under  the  table  !  I  draw  back 
as  if  from  a  furnace,  but  a  secret  force  impels  me  forward 
again  and  my  senses  become  disordered.  Her  innocent, 
unconscious  heart  never  knows  what  agony  these  little 
familiarities  inflict  upon  me !  Sometimes  when  we  are 
talking  she  lays  her  hand  upon  mine,  and  in  the  eagerness 
of  conversation  closer  to  me,  and  her  balmy  breath  reaches 
my  lips, — when  I  feel  as  if  lightning  had  struck  me,  and 
that  I  could  sink  into  the  earth. 

July  i8tb. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  see  Charlotte  to-day.  I  was 
prevented  by  company  from  which  I  could  not  disengage 
myself.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  I  sent  my  servant  to  her 
house,  that  I  might,  at  least,  see  somebody  to-day  who  had 


WERTHER   AND   CHARLOTTE 


A  Sentimental  Lover  \  \  5 

been  near  her.  Oh  !  the  impatience  with  which  I  waited 
for  his  return — the  joy  with  which  I  welcomed  him  !  I 
should  certainly  have  caught  him  in  my  arms  and  kissed 
him,  if  I  had  not  been  ashamed. 

It  is  said  that  the  Bonona  stone,  when  placed  in  the  sun, 
attracts  the  rays,  and  for  a  time  appears  luminous  in  the 
dark.  So  was  it  with  me  and  this  servant.  The  idea  that 
Charlotte's  eyes  had  dwelt  on  his  countenance,  his  cheek, 
his  very  apparel,  endeared  them  all  inestimably  to  me,  so 
that  at  the  moment  I  would  not  have  parted  from  him  fora 
thousand  crowns.  His  presence  made  me  so  happy  !  Be- 
ware of  laughing  at  me,  Wilhelm.  Can  that  be  a  delusion 
which  makes  us  happy  ? 

July  I9th. 

"  I  shall  see  her  to-day  !  "  I  exclaim  with  delight,  when 
I  rise  in  the  morning,  and  look  out  with  gladness  of  heart 
at  the  bright,  beautiful  sun, — "  I  shall  see  her  to-day  !  "  and 
then  I  have  no  further  wish  to  form ;  all — all  is  included  in 
that  one  thought. 

Julyjoth. 

Albert  is  arrived  and  I  must  take  my  departure.  Were 
he  the  best  and  noblest  of  men  and  I  in  every  respect  his 
inferior,  I  could  not  endure  to  see  him  in  possession  of 
such  a  perfect  being.  Possession  ! — enough,  Wilhelm; 
her  betrothed  is  here  !  A  fine,  worthy  fellow,  whom  one 
cannot  help  liking.  Fortunately,  I  was  not  present  at  their 
meeting.  It  would  have  broken  my  heart !  And  he  is  so 
considerate  ;  he  has  not  given  Charlotte  one  kiss  in  my 
presence.  Heaven  reward  him  for  it !  I  must  love  him 
for  the  respect  with  which  he  treats  her.  He  shows  a  re- 
gard for  me,  but  for  this  I  suspect  I  am  more  indebted  to 
Charlotte  than  to  his  own  fancy  for  me.  Women  have  a 
delicate  tact  in  such  matters  ;  and  it  should  be  so.  They 
cannot  always  succeed  in  keeping  two  rivals  on  terms  with 
each  other ;  but  when  they  do,  they  are  the  only  gainers. 

I  cannot  help  esteeming  Albert.  The  coolness  of  his 
temper  contrasts  strongly  with  the  impetuosity  of  mine, 
which  I  cannot  conceal.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  feeling, 


u6     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

and  is  fully  sensible  of  the  treasure  he  possesses  in  Char- 
lotte. He  is  free  from  ill-humour,  which  you  know  is  the 
fault  I  detest  most. 

He  regards  me  as  a  man  of  sense,  and  my  attachment  to 
Charlotte,  and  the  interest  I  take  in  all  that  concerns  her, 
augment  his  triumph  and  his  love.  I  shall  not  inquire 
whether  he  may  not  at  times  tease  her  with  some  little 
jealousies,  as  I  know  that  were  I  in  his  place,  I  should  not 
be  entirely  free  from  such  sensations. 

But  be  that  as  it  may,  my  pleasure  with  Charlotte  is 
over.  Call  it  folly,  or  infatuation,  what  signifies  a  name  ? 
The  thing  speaks  for  itself.  Before  Albert  came,  I  knew 
all  that  I  know  now.  I  knew  I  could  make  no  pretensions 
to  her,  nor  did  I  offer  any;  that  is,  as  far  as  it  was  possible 
in  the  presence  of  so  much  loveliness,  not  to  pant  for  its 
enjoyment.  And  now,  behold  me,  like  a  silly  fellow, 
staring  with  astonishment  when  another  comes  in  and  de- 
prives me  of  my  love. 

I  bite  my  lips  and  feel  infinite  scorn  for  those  who  tell 
me  to  be  resigned,  because  there  is  no  help  for  it.  Let  me 
escape  from  the  yoke  of  such  silly  subterfuges  !  I  ramble 
through  the  woods,  and  when  I  return  to  Charlotte,  and  find 
Albert  sitting  by  her  side  in  the  summer-house  in  the  gar- 
den, I  am  unable  to  bear  it;  behave  like  a  fool;  and  com- 
mit a  thousand  extravagances.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,"  said 
Charlotte  to-day,  "  let  us  have  no  more  scenes  like  those  of 
last  night.  You  terrify  me  when  you  are  so  violent."  Be- 
tween ourselves,  I  am  always  away  now  when  he  visits  her, 
and  I  feel  delighted  when  I  find  her  alone. 

September  $th. 

Charlotte  had  written  a  letter  to  her  husband  in  the  country, 
where  he  was  detained  by  business.  It  commenced  "  My 
dearest  love,  return  as  soon  as  possible ;  I  await  you  with  a 
thousand  raptures."  A  friend,  who  arrived,  brought  word 
that,  for  certain  reasons,  he  could  not  return  immediately. 
Charlotte's  letter  was  not  forwarded,  and  the  same  evening 
it  fell  into  my  hands.  I  read  it  and  smiled.  She  asked  the 
reason.  "What  a  heavenly  treasure  is  imagination!"  I 
exclaimed  ;  "  I,  fancied  for  a  moment  that  this  was  written 


A  Sentimental  Lover  117 

to    me ! "     She    paused    and    seemed    displeased.     I    was 
silent. 

September  6th. 

It  cost  me  much  to  part  with  the  blue  coat  which  I 
wore  the  first  time  I  danced  with  Charlotte.  But  I  could 
not  possibly  wear  it  any  longer.  But  I  have  ordered  a  new 
one,  precisely  similar,  even  to  the  collar  and  sleeves,  as  well 
as  a  new  waistcoat  and  pantaloons. 

But  it  does  not  produce  the  same  effect  upon  me.  I 
know  not  how  it  is ;  but  I  hope  in  time  I  shall  like  it 
better. 

I  wish,  Charlotte,  to  be  buried  in  the  dress  I  wear  at 
present ;  it  has  been  rendered  sacred  by  your  touch.  I 
have  begged  this  favour  of  your  father.  My  spirit  soars 
above  my  sepulchre.  I  do  not  wish  my  pockets  to  be 
searched.  The  knot  of  pink  ribbon  which  you  wore  on 
your  bosom  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  surrounded  by  the 
children  ! — O  kiss  them  a  thousand  times  for  me,  and  tell 
them  the  fate  of  their  unhappy  friend.  I  think  I  see  them 
playing  around  me.  The  dear  children !  How  warmly 
have  I  been  attached  to  you,  Charlotte!  Since  the  first 
hour  I  saw  you,  how  impossible  have  I  found  it  to  leave 
you.  This  ribbon  must  be  buried  with  me ;  it  was  a 
present  from  you  on  my  birthday.  How  confused  it  all 
appears  ! 

December  2zst. 

Past  eleven  o'clock  !  All  is  silent  around  me,  and 
my  soul  is  calm.  I  thank  thee,  O  God,  that  thou  be- 
stowest  strength  and  courage  upon  me  in  these  last  mo- 
ments. I  approach  the  window,  my  dearest  of  friends,  and 
through  the  clouds,  which  are  at  this  moment  driven  rapidly 
along  by  the  impetuous  winds,  I  behold  the  stars  which 
illumine  the  eternal  heavens !  No,  you  will  not  fall, 
celestial  bodies  !  the  hand  of  the  Almighty  supports  both 
you  and  me !  I  have  looked  for  the  last  time  upon  the 
constellation  of  the  Great  Bear;  it  is  my  favourite  star; 
for  when  I  bade  you  farewell  at  night,  Charlotte,  and  turned 
my  steps  from  your  door,  it  always  shone  upon  me.  With 


ii8     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

what  rapture  have  I  at  times  beheld  it !  How  often  have  I 
implored  it  with  uplifted  hands  to  witness  my  felicity  ?  and 

even  still But  what  object  is  there,  Charlotte,  which 

fails  to  summon  up  your  image  before  me  ?  Do  you  not 
surround  me  on  all  sides  ?  and  have  I  not,  like  a  child,  treas- 
ured up  every  trifle  which  you  have  consecrated  by  your 
touch  ? 

"Your  profile,  which  was  so  dear  to  me,  I  return  to  you, 
and  I  pray  you  to  preserve  it.  Thousands  of  kisses  have  I 
imprinted  upon  it,  and  a  thousand  times  has  it  gladdened  my 
heart  on  departing  from  and  returning  to  my  home  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  enjoyed  the  bliss  of  dying  for  you  !  How 
gladly  would  I  have  sacrificed  myself  for  you.  Charlotte  ! 
And  could  I  but  restore  peace  and  joy  to  your  bosom,  with 
what  resolution,  with  what  joy  would  I  not  meet  my  fate  ! 
But  it  is  the  lot  of  only  a  chosen  few  to  shed  their  blood  for 
their  friends,  and  by  their  death  to  augment,  a  thousand 
times,  the  happiness  of  those  by  whom  they  are  beloved. 
Little  did  I  then  think  that  I  should  journey  this  road. 
But,  peace  !  I  pray  you,  peace  ! 

They  are  loaded — the  clock  strikes  twelve.  I  say, 
amen.  Charlotte,  Charlotte  !  farewell,  farewell ! 

(The  Sorrows  of  Young  Wertber,  Leipzig, 


A   Perverse   Lady  119 


A  PERVERSE  LADY 

RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN 

O/£  ANTHONY.     Come,  c.ome,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  we 

must  forget  and  forgive.     Odds  life  !     Matters  have 

taken  so  clever  a  turn  all  of  a  sudden,  that  I  could  find  in 

my  heart  to  be  so  good-humoured !   and  so  gallant !  hey  ! 

Mrs.  Malaprop  ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  Sir  Anthony,  since  you  desire  it,  we 
will  not  anticipate  the  past ;  so  mind,  young  people,  our 
retrospection  will  be  all  to  the  future. 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  we  must  leave  them  together ;  Mrs. 
Malaprop,  they  long  to  fly  into  each  other's  arms,  I  war- 
rant !  Jack,  isn't  the  cheek  as  I  said,  hey  ?  and  the  eye, 
you  rogue !  and  the  lip,  hey  ?  Come,  Mrs.  Malaprop, 
we'll  not  disturb  their  tenderness — theirs  is  the  time  of  life 
for  happiness  !  "  Youth's  the  season  made  for  joy  "  [j/wg-j], 
hey !  Odds  life  !  I'm  in  such  spirits,  I  don't  know  what  I 
could  not  do  !  Permit  me,  ma'am  [gives  his  hand  to  MRS. 
MALAPROP].  [Sings.']  Tol-de-rol — 'gad,  I  should  like  to 
have  a  little  fooling  myself — Tol-de-rol !  de-rol. 

[Exit  singing  and  handling  MRS.  MALAPROP. 

[I/YDIA  sits  sullenly  in  her  chair  J] 

Abs.  So  much  thought  bodes  me  no  good.  [Aside.]  So 
grave,  Lydia ! 

Lydia.     Sir ! 

Abs.  So !  egad !  I  thought  as  much !  that  d — n'd 
monosyllable  has  froze  me !  [Aside.~\  What,  Lydia,  now 
that  we  are  as  happy  in  our  friends'  consent,  as  in  our  mu- 
tual vows 

Lydia.      Friend's  consent  indeed  !  [Peevishly. 

Abs.  Come,  come,  we  must  lay  aside  some  of  our  ro- 
mance— a  little  wealth  and  comfort  may  be  endured  after  all. 
And  for  your  fortune,  the  lawyers  shall  make  such  settle- 
ments as 


120     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

Lydia.     Lawyers  !     I  hate  lawyers  ! 

Abs.  Nay,  then,  we  will  not  wait  for  their  lingering 
forms,  but  instantly  procure  the  license,  and 

Lydia.     The  license  !     I  hate  license  ! 

Abs.  O,  my  love !  be  not  so  unkind  !  thus  let  me 
entreat \Kneeling. 

Lydia.  Pshaw  !  what  signifies  kneeling,  when  you  know 
I  must  have  you  ! 

Abs.  [rising].  Nay,  madam,  there  shall  be  no  constraint 
upon  your  inclination,  I  promise  you.  If  I  have  lost  your 
heart,  I  resign  the  rest.  'Gad,  I  must  try  what  a  little  Spirit 
will  do.  [Aside. 

Lydia  [rising].  Then,  sir,  let  me  tell  you,  the  interest 
you  had  there  was  acquired  by  a  mean  unmanly  imposition, 
and  deserves  the  punishment  of  fraud.  What,  you  have 
been  treating  me  like  a  child !  humouring  my  romance  ! 
and  laughing,  I  suppose  at  your  success ! 

Abs.  You  wrong  me,  Lydia,  you  wrong  me — only 
hear 

Lydia.  So,  while  I  fondly  imagined  we  were  deceiving 
my  relations,  and  flattered  myself  that  I  should  outwit  and 
incense  them  all,  behold  my  hopes  are  to  be  crushed  at 
once  by  my  aunt's  consent  and  approbation,  and  /  am  my- 
self the  only  dupe  at  last !  \Walking  about  in  a  heatJ\ 
But  here,  sir,  here  is  the  picture — Beverley's  picture  !  [ta- 
king a  miniature  from  her  bosom\,  which  I  have  worn,  night 
and  day,  in  spite  of  threats  and  entreaties !  There,  sir 
\_flings  it  at  him\,  and  be  assured  I  throw  the  original  from 
my  heart  as  easily. 

Abs.  Nay,  nay,  ma'am,  we  will  not  differ  as  to  that. 
Here  [taking  out  a  picture^  here  is  Miss  Lydia  Languish, 
what  a  difference  !  ay,  there  is  the  heavenly  assenting  smile 
that  first  gave  soul  and  spirit  to  my  hopes  !  those  are  the 
lips  which  sealed  a  vow,  as  yet  scarce  dry,  in  Cupid's 
calendar  !  and  there  the  half-resentful  blush,  that  would 
have  checked  the  ardour  of  my  thanks.  Well,  all  that's 
past !  all  over,  indeed  !  There,  madam,  in  beauty,  that 
copy  is  not  equal  to  you,  but  in  my  mind  its  merit  over  the 
original,  in  being  'still  the  same,  is  such — that — I  cannot 
find  in  my  heart  to  part  with  it.  [Puts  it  up  again. 


A   Perverse   Lady  121 

Lydia.  [softening].  'Tis  your  own  doing,  sir, — I,  I,  I  sup- 
pose you  are  perfectly  satisfied. 

Abs.  O,  most  certainly  ;  sure,  now,  this  is  much  better 
than  being  in  love  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha !  there's  some  spirit  in  this  ! 
What  signifies  breaking  some  scores  of  solemn  promises  : 
all  that's  of  no  consequence,  you  know.  To  be  sure  peo- 
ple will  say,  that  miss  didn't  know  her  own  mind,  but 
never  mind  that  !  or,  perhaps,  they  may  be  ill-natured 
enough  to  hint  that  the  gentleman  grew  tired  of  the  lady 
and  forsook  her;  but  don't  let  that  fret  you. 

Lydia.     There's  no  bearing  his  insolence. 

[Bursts  into  tears. 

Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP  and  SIR  ANTHONY. 

Mrs.  Mai.  [entering].  Come,  we  must  interrupt  your 
billing  and  cooing  awhile. 

Lydia.  This  is  worse  than  your  treachery  and  deceit, 
you  base  ingrate.  [Sobbing. 

Sir  Anth.  What  the  devil's  the  matter  now  !  Z — ds  ! 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  this  is  the  oddest  billing  and  cooing  I  ever 
heard  !  but  what  the  deuce  is  the  meaning  of  it  ?  I  am 
quite  astonished  ! 

Abs.     Ask  the  lady,  sir. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O,  mercy  !  I'm  quite  analysed,  for  my 
parts  !  Why,  Lydia,  what  is  the  reason  of  this  ? 

Lydia.     Ask  the  gentleman,  ma'am. 

Sir  Anth.  Z — ds  !  I  shall  be  in  a  phrenzy  !  why,  Jack, 
you  are  not  come  out  to  be  any  one  else,  are  you  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Ay,  sir,  there's  no  more  trick,  is  there  ? 
You  are  not  like  Cerberus,  three  gentlemen  at  once,  are 
you  ? 

Abs.  You'll  not  let  me  speak — I  say  the  lady  can  ac- 
count for  this  much  better  than  I  can. 

Lydia.  Ma'am,  you  once  commanded  me  never  to  think 
of  Beverley  again — there  is  the  man.  I  now  obey  you  !  for, 
from  this  moment,  I  renounce  him  forever. 

[Exit  LYDIA. 


122     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

JULIA'S  dressing-room.     JULIA  and  LYDIA. 

Lydia.  O,  Julia,  I  am  come  to  you  with  such  an  appe- 
tite for  consolation.  Lud  !  child,  what's  the  matter  with 
you  ?  You  have  been  crying !  I'll  be  hanged  if  that 
Faulkland  has  not  been  tormenting  you  ! 

Julia.  You  mistake  the  cause  of  my  uneasiness !  Some- 
thing has  flurried  me  a  little.  Nothing  that  you  can  guess 
at.  I  would  not  accuse  Faulkland  to  a  sister  !  \~Aside. 

Lydia.  Ah  !  whatever  vexations  you  may  have,  I  can 
assure  you  mine  surpass  them.  You  know  who  Beverley 
proves  to  be  ? 

"Julia.  I  will  now  own  to  you,  Lydia,  that  Mr.  Faulk- 
land had  before  informed  me  of  the  whole  affair.  Had 
young  Absolute  been  the  person  you  took  him  for,  I  should 
not  have  accepted  your  confidence  on  the  subject,  without 
a  serious  endeavour  to  counteract  your  caprice. 

Lydia.  So,  then,  I  see  I  have  been  deceived  by  every 
one  !  but  I  don't  care — I'll  never  have  him. 

Julia.     Nay,  Lydia 

Lydia.  Why,  is  it  not  provoking  ?  when  I  thought  we 
were  coming  to  the  prettiest  distress  imaginable,  to  find 
myself  made  a  mere  Smithfield  bargain  of  at  last.  There 
had  I  projected  one  of  the  most  sentimental  elopements  ! 
so  becoming  a  disguise  !  so  amiable  a  ladder  of  ropes  ! 
Conscious  moon — four  horses — Scotch  parson — with  such 
surprise  to  Mrs.  Malaprop — and  such  paragraphs  in  the 
newspapers  !  O,  I  shall  die  with  disappointment ! 

Julia.     I  don't  wonder  at  it ! 

Lydia.  Now,  sad  reverse !  What  have  I  to  expect, 
but,  after  a  great  deal  of  flimsy  preparation  with  a  bishop's 
licence,  and  my  aunt's  blessing,  to  go  simpering  up  to  the 
altar  ;  or  perhaps  be  cried  three  times  in  a  country  church, 
and  have  an  unmannerly  fat  clerk  ask  the  consent  of  every 
butcher  in  the  parish  to  join  John  Absolute  and  Lydia 
Languish,  spinster !  O,  that  I  should  live  to  hear  myself 
called  Spinster! 

Julia.     Melancholy,  indeed  ! 

Lydia.  How  mortifying,  to  remember  the  dear  delicious 
shifts  I  used  to  be  put  to,  to  gain  half  a  minute's  conversa- 
tion with  this  fellow  !  How  often  have  I  stole  forth,  in 


A   Perverse    Lady  123 

the  coldest  night  in  January,  and  found  him  in  the  garden, 
stuck  like  a  dripping  statue  !  Then  would  he  kneel  to  me 
in  the  snow,  and  sneeze  and  cough  so  pathetically  !  he 
shivering  with  cold  and  I  with  apprehension  !  and  while 
the  freezing  blast  numbed  our  joints,  how  warmly  would 
he  press  me  to  pity  his  flame,  and  glow  with  mutual  ar- 
dour !  Ah,  Julia,  that  was  something  like  being  in  love. 

Julia.  If  I  were  in  spirits,  Lydia,  I  should  chide  you 
only  by  laughing  heartily  at  you,  but  it  suits  more  the  situa- 
tion of  my  mind,  at  present,  earnestly  to  entreat  you  not  to 
let  a  man  who  loves  you  with  sincerity,  suffer  that  unhappi- 
ness  from  your  caprice,  which  I  know  too  well  caprice  can 
inflict. 

(The  Rivals,  7775.) 


124     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


WAS  SHE  TO  BLAME? 

FRANCES  BURNEY 

"lll/'HEN  I  went  down  stairs  to  dinner,  Lord  Orville, 
who  was  still  in  excellent  spirits,  reproached  me 
for  secluding  myself  so  much  from  the  company.  He  sat 
next  me, — he  would  sit  next  me, — at  table ;  and  he  might, 
I  am  sure,  repeat  what  he  once  said  of  me  before,  that  be 
almost  exhausted  himself  in  fruitless  endeavours  to  entertain 
me ; — for,  indeed,  I  was  not  to  be  entertained  :  I  was  totally 
spiritless  and  dejected  ;  the  idea  of  the  approaching  meet- 
ing,— and  O  sir,  the  idea  of  the  approaching  parting, — 
gave  a  heaviness  to  my  heart  that  I  could  neither  conquer 
nor  repress.  I  even  regretted  the  half  explanation  that  had 
passed,  and  wished  Lord  Orville  had  supported  his  own 
reserve,  and  suffered  me  to  support  mine. 

However,  when  during  dinner,  Mrs.  Beaumont  spoke  of 
our  journey,  my  gravity  was  no  longer  singular ;  a  cloud 
instantly  overspread  the  countenance  of  Lord  Orville,  and 
he  became  nearly  as  thoughtful  and  as  silent  as  myself. 

We  all  went  together  to  the  drawing-room.  After  a 
short  and  unentertaining  conversation,  Mrs.  Selwyn  said 
she  must  prepare  for  her  journey,  and  begged  me  to  seek  for 
some  books  she  had  left  in  the  parlour. 

And  here,  while  I  was  looking  for  them,  I  was  followed 
by  Lord  Orville.  He  shut  the  door  after  he  came  in,  and 
approaching  me  with  a  look  of  anxiety,  said,  "  Is  this  true, 
Miss  Anville  ?  are  you  going  ?  " 

"I  believe  so,  my  lord,"  said  I,  still  looking  for  the  books. 

"So  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly  must  I  lose  you  ?  " 

"  No  great  loss,  my  lord,"  cried  I,  endeavouring  to  speak 
cheerfully. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  said  he  gravely,  "  Miss  Anville  can 
doubt  my  sincerity  ? " 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  cried  I,  "  what  Mrs.  Selwyn  has  done 
with  these  books." 


tf^as   She  to   Blame?  125 

"  Would  to  Heaven,"  continued  he,  "  I  might  flatter 
myself  you  would  allow  me  to  prove  it  !  " 

"  I  must  run  up-stairs,"  cried  I,  greatly  confused,  "  and 
ask  what  she  has  done  with  them." 

"  You  are  going  then,"  cried  he,  taking  my  hand,  "  and 
you  give  me  not  the  smallest  hope  of  your  return  ! — will 
you  not,  then,  my  too  lovely  friend  ! — will  you  not,  at 
least,  teach  me,  with  fortitude  like  your  own,  to  support 
your  absence  ? " 

"  My  lord,"  cried  I,  endeavouring  to  disengage  my  hand, 
"  pray  let  me  go  !  " 

"  I  will,"  cried  he,  to  my  inexpressible  confusion,  drop- 
ping on  one  knee,  "  if  you  wish  to  leave  me  !  " 

"  Oh,  my  lord,"  exclaimed  I,  "  rise,  I  beseech  you,  rise  ! 
— such  a  posture  to  me  ! — surely  your  lordship  is  not  so 
cruel  as  to  mock  me  !  " 

"  Mock  you  !  "  repeated  he  earnestly  ;  "  no  !  I  revere 
you  !  I  esteem  and  I  admire  you  above  all  human  beings  ! 
you  are  the  friend  to  whom  my  soul  is  attached  as  to  its 
better  half!  you  are  the  most  amiable,  the  most  perfect  of 
women  !  and  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  language  has  the 
power  of  telling." 

I  attempt  not  to  describe  my  sensations  at  that  moment ; 
I  scarce  breathed  ;  I  doubted  if  I  existed, — the  blood  for- 
sook my  cheeks,  and  my  feet  refused  to  sustain  me  :  Lord 
Orville,  hastily  rising,  supported  me  to  a  chair,  upon  which 
I  sunk,  almost  lifeless. 

For  a  few  minutes  we  neither  of  us  spoke ;  and  then, 
seeing  me  recover,  Lord  Orville,  though  in  terms  hardly 
articulate,  entreated  my  pardon  for  his  abruptness.  The 
moment  my  strength  returned  I  attempted  to  rise,  but  he 
would  not  permit  me. 

I  cannot  write  the  scene  that  followed,  though  every 
word  is  engraven  on  my  heart ;  but  his  protestations,  his 
expressions  were  too  flattering  for  repetition  ;  nor  would 
he,  in  spite  of  my  repeated  efforts  to  leave  him,  suffer  me 
to  escape ; — in  short,  my  dear  sir,  I  was  not  proof  against 
his  solicitations,  and  he  drew  from  me  the  most  sacred 
secret  of  my  heart ! 

I  know  not  how  long  we  were  together;  but  Lord  Orville 


iz6     Love   in    Literature   and  Art 

was  upon  his  knees,  when  the  door  was  opened  by  Mrs. 
Selwyn! — To  tell  you,  sir,  the  shame  with  which  I  was 
overwhelmed  would  be  impossible : — I  snatched  my  hand 
from  Lord  Orville, — he,  too,  started  and  rose,  and  Mrs. 
Selwyn,  for  some  instants,  stood  facing  us  both  in  silence. 

At  last,  "  My  lord,"  said  she,  sarcastically,  "  have  you 
been  so  good  as  to  help  Miss  Anville  to  look  for  my  books  ? " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  answered  he,  attempting  to  rally,  "  and 
I  hope  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  find  them." 

"Your  lordship  is  extremely  kind,"  said  she  dryly,  "but 
I  can  by  no  means  consent  to  take  up  any  more  of  your 
time."  Then  looking  on  the  window-seat  she  presently 
found  the  books,  and  added,  "  Come,  here  are  just  three, 
and  so,  like  the  servants  in  the  Drummer,  this  important 
affair  may  give  employment  to  us  all."  She  then  presented 
one  of  them  to  Lord  Orville,  another  to  me,  and  taking  a 
third  herself,  with  a  most  provoking  look,  she  left  the  room. 

I  would  instantly  have  followed  her,  but  Lord  Orville, 
who  could  not  help  laughing,  begged  me  to  stay  a  minute, 
as  he  had  many  important  matters  to  discuss. 

"  No,  indeed,  my  lord,  I  cannot, — perhaps  I  have  already 
staid  too  long." 

"  Does  Miss  Anville  so  soon  repent  her  goodness  ?  " 

"  I  scarce  know  what  I  do,  my  lord ;  I  am  quite  bewil- 
dered !  " 

"  One  hour's  conversation,"  cried  he,  "  will,  I  hope, 
compose  your  spirits  and  confirm  my  happiness.  When, 
then,  may  I  hope  to  see  you  alone  ?  shall  you  walk  in  the 
garden  to-morrow  before  breakfast  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  my  lord ;  you  must  not,  a  second  time,  re- 
proach me  with  making  an  appointment" 

"  Do  you  then,"  said  he  laughing,  "  reserve  that  honour 
only  for  Mr.  Macartney  ?  " 

"Mr.  Macartney,"  said  I,  "is  poor,  and  thinks  himself 
obliged  to  me  ;  otherwise " 

"  Poverty,"  cried  he,  "  I  will  not  plead  ;  but  if  being 
obliged  to  you  has  any  weight,  who  shall  dispute  my  title  to 
an  appointment  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  I  can  stay  no  longer :  Mrs.  Selwyn  will  lose 
all  patience." 


She  to   Blame?  127 


"  Deprive  her  not  of  the  pleasure  of  her  conjectures,  but 
tell  me,  are  you  under  Mrs.  Selwyn's  care  ?  " 

"  Only  for  the  present,  my  lord." 

"  Not  a  few  are  the  questions  I  have  to  ask  Miss  An- 
ville  :  among  them  the  most  important  is  whether  she 
depends  wholly  on  herself,  or  whether  there  is  any  other 
person  for  whose  interest  I  must  solicit  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,  my  lord,  I  hardly  know  myself  to  whom 
I  most  belong." 

"Suffer,  suffer  me,  then,"  cried  he  with  warmth,  "to 
hasten  the  time  when  that  shall  no  longer  admit  a  doubt  ! 
—  when  your  grateful  Orville  may  call  you  all  his  own  !  " 

At  length,  but  with  difficulty,  I  broke  from  him.  I  went, 
however,  to  my  own  room,  for  I  was  too  much  agitated 
to  follow  Mrs.  Selwyn.  Good  God,  my  dear  sir,  what  a 
scene  !  surely  the  meeting  for  which  I  shall  prepare  to- 
morrow cannot  so  greatly  affect  me  !  To  be  loved  by 
Lord  Orville,  —  to  be  the  honoured  choice  of  his  noble 
heart,  —  my  happiness  seemed  too  infinite  to  be  borne,  and 
I  wept,  even  bitterly  wept,  from  the  excess  of  joy  which 
overpowered  me. 

In  this  state  of  almost  painful  felicity,  I  continued  till  I 
was  summoned  to  tea.  When  I  re-entered  the  drawing- 
room,  I  rejoiced  to  find  it  full  of  company,  as  the  confusion 
with  which  I  met  Lord  Orville  was  rendered  the  less 
observable. 

Immediately  after  tea  most  of  the  company  played  at 
cards,  and  then,  till  supper-time,  Lord  Orville  devoted  him- 
self wholly  to  me. 

He  saw  that  my  eyes  were  red,  and  would  not  let  me 
rest  till  he  had  made  me  confess  the  cause  ;  and  when, 
though  most  reluctantly,  I  had  acknowledged  my  weakness, 
I  could  with  difficulty  refrain  from  weeping  again  at  the 
gratitude  he  expressed. 


And  now,  my  dearest  sir,  may  I  not  call  for  your  con- 
gratulations upon  the  events  of  the  day  ?  a  day  never  to  be 
recollected  by  me  but  with  the  most  grateful  joy  !  I  know 
how  much  you  are  inclined  to  think  well  of  Lord  Orville: 


128     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

I  cannot,  therefore,  apprehend  that  my  frankness  to  him 
will  displease  you.  Perhaps  the  time  is  not  very  distant, 
when  your  Evelina's  choice  may  receive  the  sanction  of  her 
best  friend's  judgment  and  approbation,  which  seems  now 
all  she  has  to  wish. 

In  regard  to  the  change  in  my  situation  which  must  first 
take  place,  surely  I  cannot  be  blamed  for  what  has  passed  : 
the  partiality  of  Lord  Orville  must  not  only  reflect  honour 
upon  me,  but  upon  all  to  whom  I  do  or  may  belong. 


(Evelina  ;  or,   A  Young  Lady  's  Entrance  Into  the  World, 
London, 


THROUGH  LOVE,  A  SOUL 

FRIEDRICH  BARON  DE  LA  MOTTE  FOUQUE 


evening  came,  Undine  hung  with  a  tender 
meekness  on  the  knight's  arm,  and  gently  drew 
him  to  the  door,  where  the  setting  sun  was  lighting  up  the 
moist  grass,  and  gleaming  round  the  tall  slender  stems  of 
the  trees.  In  the  eyes  of  the  young  wife  there  swam,  as 
it  were,  a  dew  of  melancholy  and  of  love,  a  tender  sorrow- 
ful secret  seemed  hanging  on  her  lips,  a  secret  that  was 
translated  only  in  sighs  that  were  scarcely  audible.  Silently 
she  led  her  lover  farther  away  ;  when  he  spoke,  she  re- 
plied only  with  looks  which  might  be  not  wholly  pertinent 
to  his  questions,  but  in  which  there  lay  a  whole  heaven  of 
love  and  shy  devotion.  So  they  reached  the  bank  of  the 
swollen  forest  torrent,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  the 
knight,  they  found  that  its  waters  had  so  far  retired  and  had 
become  so  quiet  that  no  trace  was  left  of  their  former  rage 
and  volume. 

"  By  to-morrow,"  said  the  lovely  wife  with  a  tear  in  her 
voice,  —  "by  to-morrow  it  will  have  quite  subsided,  and 
then  no  one  can  prevent  you  from  riding  off,  whither  you 
will." 

"Not  without  you,  little  Undine,"  answered  the  knight 
as  he  laughed  :  "  even  if  I  wanted  to  escape  you,  Church 
and  State,  Priest  and  Emperor,  would  combine  to  bring  you 
back  your  fugitive." 

"  It  all  depends  on  you,  it  all  depends  on  you,"  whispered 
the  girl,  half  weeping,  half  smiling.  "  But  I  think  you 
will  want  to  keep  me,  for  I  am  so  very  fond  of  you. 
Now,  take  me  over  to  the  little  island,  that  lies  in  front  of 
us.  It  shall  be  decided  there.  I  could  very  easily  slip 
through  the  wavelets  by  myself,  but  it  is  so  delightful  to 
rest  in  your  arms,  and,  if  you  cast  me  off,  at  all  events  I 
shall  have  been  resting  sweetly  there  for  the  last  time." 

Huldbrand,   strangely   agitated   and   alarmed,   knew   not 


130     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

what  to  reply.  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  carried  her 
over,  now  for  the  first  time  realizing,  as  he  did  so,  that  this 
was  the  very  island  whence  on  that  first  night  he  had  borne 
her  back  to  the  old  fisherman.  He  laid  her  down,  a  lovely 
burden,  on  the  soft  grass,  and  would  have  seated  himself 
caressingly  beside  her;  but  she  said,  "No!  over  there, 
opposite  me  !  I  wish  to  read  your  eyes  before  your  lips  can 
speak.  Listen  attentively  to  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  !  " 
And  then  she  began. 

"You  must  know,  my  sweet  darling,  that  in  the  elements 
there  exist  beings  whose  outer  semblance  is  almost  the 
same  as  your  own.  They  but  seldom  allow  you  to  gaze 
upon  them.  In  the  flames  glitter  and  sparkle  the  marvellous 
salamanders ;  deep  within  the  earth  the  lean,  spiteful 
gnomes  have  their  dwelling  ;  through  the  woodlands  flit  the 
wood-folk,  whose  home  is  in  the  air ;  and  in  the  lakes  and 
streams  and  rivulets  there  moves  the  endless  race  of  spirits 
of  the  water.  In  ringing  vaults  of  crystal,  through  which 
heaven  looks  down  with  sun  and  stars,  these  have  their 
abode ;  lofty  trees  of  coral  loaded  with  blue  and  ruddy 
fruitage  flourish  in  those  gardens,  where  the  inhabitants 
walk  on  pure  sea-sand,  or  over  fair  and  variegated  shells. 
All  that  the  ancient  world  could  boast  of  beauty,  all  that 
our  world  of  to-day  is  not  worthy  to  enjoy,  that  the  streams 
concealed  with  their  secret  veils  of  silver,  and  below  them 
sparkle  now  those  noble  memorials,  bedewed  by  those  lov- 
ing waters,  which  allure  them  out  of  their  exquisite  moss- 
blooms  and  tufted  reeds.  But  there  they  dwell  and  are 
gentle  and  mild  to  look  upon,  most  of  them  fairer  far  than 
humankind.  Many  a  fisherman  has  rejoiced  to  surprise  a 
delicate  water-girl,  rising  from  the  floods  and  singing.  Of 
her  beauty  he  has  told  his  fellows,  and  men  have  come  to 
name  such  strange  maidens  Undines.  You,  my  dearest,  are 
at  this  moment  gazing  upon  just  such  an  Undine." 

The  knight  endeavoured  to  persuade  himself  that  his 
lovely  wife  was  simply  indulging  in  one  of  her  pranks  of 
mystification,  and  was  entertaining  herself  by  teasing  him 
with  a  motley  screed  of  legends.  But,  however  hard  he 
tried  to  think  it,  he  could  not  persuade  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment that  it  was  so  ;  a  wild  shudder  passed  through  him ; 


Through   Lovey   a   Soul         131 

unable  to  pronounce  a  word,  he  stared  with  unaverted  eye 
at  the  pretty  narrator.  But  she  mournfully  shook  her 
head,  sighed  out  of  a  full  heart,  and  continued  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"We  should  be  far  better  off  than  you  other  human 
beings — for  human  beings  we  consider  ourselves,  having 
the  semblance  and  the  body  of  humanity — but  for  one 
great  disadvantage.  We  and  those  who  resemble  us  in  the 
other  elements,  we  vanish  and  are  gone,  breath  and  body, 
so  that  no  trace  of  us  remains  behind,  and  when  you  others 
on  some  future  day  shall  wake  to  a  purer  life,  we  shall  be 
what  sand  and  smoke  and  winds  and  waves  are  made  of. 
For  no  souls  have  we  :  it  is  the  element  that  moves  us, 
often,  so  long  as  we  live,  obeys  us,  when  we  die,  turns  us 
to  dust ;  and  we  rejoice,  without  a  peevish  sigh,  as  do  night- 
ingales and  little  golden  fishes  and  the  other  pretty  children 
of  nature.  Yet  all  creatures  desire  to  rise  to  higher  things. 
So  my  father,  who  is  a  mighty  prince  of  waters  in  the 
Mediterranean  Sea,  desired  that  his  daughter  should  in 
measure  possess  a  soul,  and  in  consequence  should  share 
many  of  the  sufferings  of  those  in  whom  souls  are  born. 
But  one  of  us  can  only  win  a  soul  by  the  most  intimate 
union  in  love  with  one  of  your  race.  Now  I  do  possess  a 
soul ;  to  you  I  owe  this  soul,  O  inexpressibly  beloved  one, 
and  I  will  be  grateful  to  you  for  it  if  you  will  not  that  my 
whole  life  through  should  be  made  wretched.  For  what 
would  become  of  me,  if  you  were  to  avoid  and  repulse 
me  ?  But  I  could  not  deceive  even  to  retain  you.  And 
if  you  are  going  to  repulse  me,  do  it  now,  and  pass  back 
alone  to  yonder  shore.  I  will  plunge  into  this  cascade, 
which  is  my  father's  brother,  and  leads  a  strange  hermit's  life 
here  in  the  woodland,  far  from  all  old  comrades.  But  strong 
is  he,  and  more  worth  than  many  rivers,  and  more  precious, 
and  as  it  was  he  who  brought  me  here  to  the  fisherman,  me 
a  gay  and  laughing  child,  he  will  lead  me  back  again  to 
my  parents — I,  with  my  soul,  a  loving,  suffering  woman." 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  Huldbrand  cast  his  arms 
about  her  full  of  the  tenderest  agitation  and  love,  and  bore 
her  back  again  to  shore.  Then,  with  tears  and  kisses,  he 
swore  that  he  would  never  leave  his  darling  wife,  and  held 


132     Love   in   Literature  and  Art 

himself  a  happier  man  than  that  Grecian  statuary  Pygmalion, 
whose  fair  marble  was  brought  to  life  for  him  by  the  grace 
of  Lady  Venus.  In  sweet  contentment  Undine  hung  upon 
his  arm  as  they  wandered  back  to  the  cottage,  and  now  she 
realized  from  the  depths  of  her  heart  how  little  need  she 
had  to  regret  having  deserted  the  crystal  mansions  of  her 
wondrous  father. 

(Undine,   Berlin,   1811;    translation    by    Edmund    Gosse, 
London,  1897.) 


Loves  Beginnings  133 


LOVE'S  BEGINNINGS 

JANE   AUSTEN 

ELIZABETH'S  spirits  soon  rising  to  playfulness  again, 
"^  she  wanted  Mr.  Darcy  to  account  for  his  having  ever 
fallen  in  love  with  her.  "  How  could  you  begin  ?  "  said 
she.  "  I  can  comprehend  your  going  on  charmingly,  when 
you  had  once  made  a  beginning ;  but  what  could  set  you 
off  in  the  first  place  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  fix  on  the  hour,  or  the  spot,  or  the  look,  or 
the  words,  which  laid  the  foundation.  It  is  too  long  ago. 
I  was  in  the  middle  before  I  knew  that  I  had  begun." 

"  My  beauty  you  had  early  withstood,  and  as  for  my 
manners — my  behaviour  to  you  was  at  least  always  border- 
ing on  the  uncivil,  and  I  never  spoke  to  you  without  rather 
wishing  to  give  you  pain  than  not.  Now,  be  sincere;  did 
you  admire  me  for  my  impertinence  ?  " 

"  For  the  liveliness  of  your  mind  I  did." 

"  You  may  as  well  call  it  impertinence  at  once.  It  was 
very  little  less.  The  fact  is,  that  you  were  sick  of  civility, 
of  deference,  of  officious  attention.  You  were  disgusted 
with  the  women  who  were  always  speaking  and  looking, 
and  thinking  for  your  approbation  alone.  I  roused  and  in- 
terested you,  because  I  was  so  unlike  them.  Had  you  not 
been  really  amiable  you  would  have  hated  me  for  it:  but  in 
spite  of  the  pains  you  took  to  disguise  yourself,  your  feel- 
ings were  always  noble  and  just ;  and  in  your  heart  you 
thoroughly  despised  the  persons  who  so  assiduously  courted 
you.  There — I  have  saved  you  the  trouble  of  accounting 
for  it;  and  really,  all  things  considered,  I  begin  to  think  it 
perfectly  reasonable.  To  be  sure  you  knew  no  actual  good 
of  me — but  nobody  thinks  of  that  when  they  fall  in  love." 

"  Was  there  no  good  in  your  affectionate  behaviour  to 
Jane,  while  she  was  ill  at  Netherfield  ?  " 

"  Dearest  Jane  !  who  could  have  done  less  for  her  ?  But 
make  a  virtue  of  it  by  all  means.  My  good  qualities  are 


134     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

under  your  protection,  and  you  are  to  exaggerate  them  as 
much  as  possible ;  and,  in  return,  it  belongs  to  me  to  find 
occasion  for  teasing  and  quarrelling  with  you  as  often  as 
may  be ;  and  I  shall  begin  directly,  by  asking  you  what 
made  you  so  unwilling  to  come  to  the  point  at  last  ?  What 
made  you  so  shy  of  me,  when  you  first  called,  and  after- 
wards dined  here  ?  Why,  especially,  when  you  called,  did 
you  look  as  if  you  did  not  care  about  me  ?  " 

"  Because  you  were  grave  and  silent,  and  gave  me  no 
encouragement." 

"  But  I  was  embarrassed." 

"  And  so  was  I." 

"  You  might  have  talked  to  me  more  when  you  came  to 
dinner." 

"  A  man  who  had  felt  less  might." 

"  How  unlucky  that  you  should  have  a  reasonable  answer 
to  give,  and  that  I  should  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  admit  it ! 
But  I  wonder  how  long  you  would  have  gone  on,  if  you  had 
been  left  to  yourself.  I  wonder  when  you  would  have 
spoken  if  I  had  not  asked  you  !  My  resolution  of  thank- 
ing you  for  your  kindness  to  Lydia  had  certainly  great 
effect.  Too  much  \  am  afraid ;  for  what  becomes  of  the 
moral,  if  our  comfort  springs  from  a  breach  of  promise,  for 
I  ought  not  to  have  mentioned  the  subject  ?  This  will 
never  do." 

"You  need  not  distress  yourself.  The  moral  will  be 
perfectly  fair.  Lady  Catherine's  unjustifiable  endeavours 
to  separate  us  were  the  means  of  removing  all  my  doubts. 
I  am  not  indebted  for  my  present  happiness  to  your  eager 
desire  of  expressing  your  gratitude.  I  was  not  in  a  humour 
to  wait  for  an  opening  of  yours.  My  aunt's  intelligence 
had  given  me  hope,  and  I  was  determined  at  once  to  know 
everything." 

"  Lady  Catherine  has  been  of  infinite  use,  which  ought 
to  make  her  happy,  for  she  loves  to  be  of  use.  But  tell 
me,  what  did  you  come  down  to  Netherfield  for?  Was  it 
merely  to  ride  to  Longbourn  and  be  embarrassed  ?  or  had 
you  intended  any  more  serious  consequences  ?  " 

"My  real  purpose  was  to  see  you,  and  to  judge,  if  I 
could,  whether  I  might  ever  hope  to  make  you  love  me. 


Loves   Beginnings  135 

My  avowed  one,  or  what  I  avowed  to  myself,  was  to  see 
whether  your  sister  was  still  partial  to  Bingley,  and  if  she 
were  to  make  the  confession  to  him  which  I  have  since 
made." 

"Shall  you  ever  have  courage  to  announce  to  Lady 
Catherine  what  is  to  befall  her  ?  " 

"  I  am  more  likely  to  want  time  than  courage,  Elizabeth. 
But  it  ought  to  be  done ;  and  if  you  will  give  me  a  sheet 
of  paper  it  shall  be  done  directly." 

"  And  if  I  had  not  a  letter  to  write  myself,  I  might  sit 
by  you,  and  admire  the  evenness  of  your  writing,  as  another 
young  lady  once  did.  But  I  have  an  aunt,  too,  who  must 
not  be  longer  neglected." 

From  an  unwillingness  to  confess  how  much  her  inti- 
macy with  Mr.  Darcy  had  been  overrated,  Elizabeth  had 
never  yet  answered  Mrs.  Gardiner's  long  letter ;  but  now, 
having  that  to  communicate  which  she  knew  would  be 
most  welcome,  she  was  almost  ashamed  to  find  that  her 
uncle  and  aunt  had  already  lost  three  days  of  happiness,  and 
immediately  wrote  as  follows  : — 

"I  would  have  thanked  you  before,  my  dear  aunt,  as  I 
ought  to  have  done,  for  your  long,  kind,  satisfactory  detail 
of  particulars ;  but,  to  say  the  truth,  I  was  too  cross  to 
write.  You  supposed  more  than  really  existed.  But  now 
suppose  as  much  as  you  choose ;  give  a  loose  rein  to  your 
fancy,  indulge  your  imagination  in  every  possible  flight 
which  the  subject  will  afford,  and  unless  you  believe  me 
actually  married,  you  cannot  greatly  err.  You  must  write 
again  very  soon,  and  praise  him  a  great  deal  more  than  you 
did  in  your  last.  I  thank  you  again  and  again,  for  not 
going  to  the  Lakes.  How  could  I  be  so  silly  as  to  wish 
it !  Your  idea  of  the  ponies  is  delightful.  We  will  go 
round  the  park  every  day.  I  am  the  happiest  creature  in 
the  world.  Perhaps  other  people  have  said  so  before,  but 
no  one  with  such  justice.  I  am  happier  even  than  Jane; 
she  only  smiles,  I  laugh.  Mr.  Darcy  sends  you  all  the 
love  in  the  world  that  can  be  spared  from  me.  You  are  all 
to  come  to  Pemberley  at  Christmas.  Yours,"  etc. 

(Pride  and  Prejudice,  London ,  /<?/j.) 


136     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


EXPLANATIONS 

JANE  AUSTEN 

TN  the  afternoon  it  cleared  ;  the  wind  changed  into  a 
softer  quarter;  the  clouds  were  carried  off;  it  was 
summer  again.  With  all  the  eagerness  which  such  a  transi- 
tion gives,  Emma  resolved  to  be  out  of  doors  as  soon  as 
possible.  Never  had  the  exquisite  sight,  smell,  sensation 
of  nature,  tranquil,  warm,  and  brilliant  after  a  storm,  been 
more  attractive  to  her.  She  longed  for  the  serenity  they 
might  gradually  introduce ;  and  on  Mr.  Perry's  coming  in 
soon  after  dinner,  with  a  disengaged  hour  to  give  her  father 
she  lost  no  time  in  hurrying  into  the  shrubbery.  There, 
with  spirits  freshened,  and  thoughts  a  little  relieved,  she 
had  taken  a  few  turns  when  she  saw  Mr.  Knightley  passing 
through  the  garden  door,  and  coming  towards  her.  It  was 
the  first  intimation  of  his  being  returned  from  London. 
She  had  been  thinking  of  him  the  moment  before,  as  un- 
questionably sixteen  miles  distant.  There  was  time  only 
for  the  quickest  arrangement  of  mind.  She  must  be  col- 
lected and  calm.  In  half  a  minute  they  were  together. 
The  "  How-d'ye-do's  "  were  quiet  and  constrained  on  each 
side.  She  asked  after  their  mutual  friends ;  they  were  all 
well.  When  had  he  left  them  ?  Only  that  morning.  He 
must  have  had  a  wet  ride.  Yes  !  He  meant  to  walk  with 
her,  she  found.  "  He  had  just  looked  into  the  dining-room, 
and  as  he  was  not  wanted  there,  preferred  being  out  of 
doors."  She  thought  he  neither  looked  nor  spoke  cheer- 
fully ;  and  the  first  possible  cause  for  it,  suggested  by  her 
fears,  was,  that  he  had  perhaps  been  communicating  his 
plans  to  his  brother,  and  was  pained  by  the  manner  in 
which  they  had  been  received. 

They  walked  together.  He  was  silent.  She  thought  he 
was  often  looking  at  her,  and  trying  for  a  fuller  view  of  her 
face  than  it  suited  her  to  give.  And  this  belief  produced 
another  dread.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her  of  his 


Explanations  137 

attachment  to  Harriet ;  he  might  be  watching  for  encour- 
agement to  begin.  She  did  not,  could  not,  feel  equal  to 
lead  the  way  to  any  such  subject.  He  must  do  it  all  him- 
self. Yet  she  could  not  bear  this  silence.  With  him  it 
was  most  unnatural.  She  considered,  resolved,  and,  trying 
to  smile,  began, — 

"  You  have  some  news  to  hear,  now  you  are  come  back, 
that  will  rather  surprise  you." 

"  Have  I  ?  "  said  he,  quietly,  and  looking  at  her ;  "  of 
what  nature? " 

"  Oh,  the  best  nature  in  the  world — a  wedding." 

After  waiting  a  moment,  as  if  to  be  sure  she  intended  to 
say  no  more,  he  replied, — "  If  you  mean  Miss  Fairfax  and 
Frank  Churchill,  I  have  heard  that  already." 

"  How  is  it  possible  ?  "  cried  Emma,  turning  her  glow- 
ing cheeks  towards  him  ;  for  while  she  spoke  it  occurred  to 
her  that  he  might  have  called  at  Mrs.  Goddard's  in  his 
way. 

"  I  had  a  few  lines  on  parish  business  from  Mr.  Weston 
this  morning,  and  at  the  end  of  them  he  gave  me  a  brief 
account  of  what  had  happened." 

Emma  was  quite  relieved,  and  could  presently  say,  with 
a  little  more  composure, — 

"  You  probably  have  been  less  surprised  than  any  of  us, 
for  you  have  had  your  suspicions.  I  have  not  forgotten 
that  you  once  tried  to  give  me  a  caution.  I  wish  I  had  at- 
tended to  it — but  (with  a  sinking  voice  and  a  heavy  sigh) 
I  seem  to  have  been  doomed  to  blindness." 

For  a  moment  or  two  nothing  was  said,  and  she  was  un- 
suspicious of  having  excited  any  particular  interest,  till  she 
found  her  arm  drawn  within  his,  and  pressed  against  his 
heart,  and  heard  him  thus  saying,  in  a  tone  of  great  sensi- 
bility, speaking  low, — "Time,  my  dearest  Emma,  time 
will  heal  the  wound.  Your  own  excellent  sense;  your 
exertions  for  your  father's  sake ;  I  know  you  will  not 

allow  yourself "  Her  arm  was  pressed  again,  as  he 

added,  in  a  more  broken  and  subdued  accent,  "  The  feel- 
ings of  the  warmest  friendship — indignation — abominable 
scoundrel !  "  And  in  a  louder,  steadier  tone,  he  concluded 
with,  "  He  will  soon  be  gone.  They  will  soon  be  in 


138     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

Yorkshire.     I    am   sorry   for  her.     She   deserves   a  better 
fate." 

Emma  understood  him  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  could  recover 
from  the  flutter  of  pleasure,  excited  by  such  tender  con- 
sideration, replied, — 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  you  are  mistaken,  and  I  must 
set  you  right.  I  am  not  in  want  of  that  sort  of  com- 
passion. My  blindness  to  what  was  going  on  led  me  to 
act  by  them  in  a  way  that  I  must  always  be  ashamed  of, 
and  I  was  very  foolishly  tempted  to  say  and  do  many  things 
which  may  well  lay  me  open  to  unpleasant  conjectures  but 
I  have  no  other  reason  to  regret  that  I  was  not  in  the 
secret  earlier." 

"  Emma,"  cried  he,  looking  eagerly  at  her,  "are  you  in- 
deed ?  "  — but  checking  himself — "  No,  no,  I  understand  you 
— forgive  me — I  am  pleased  that  you  can  say  even  so 
much.  He  is  no  object  of  regret,  indeed  !  and  it  will  not 
be  very  long,  I  hope,  before  that  becomes  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  more  than  your  reason.  Fortunate  that  your  affec- 
tions were  no  further  entangled  ! — I  could  never,  I  confess, 
from  your  manners,  assure  myself  as  to  the  degree  of  what 
you  felt — I  could  only  be  certain  there  was  a  preference, 
and  a  preference  which  I  never  believed  him  to  deserve. 
He  is  a  disgrace  to  the  name  of  man.  And  is  he  to  be  re- 
warded with  that  sweet  young  woman  ? — Jane,  Jane,  you 
will  be  a  miserable  creature." 

"  Mr.  Knightley,"  said  Emma,  trying  to  be  lively,  but 
really  confused, — "  I  am  in  a  very  extraordinary  situation. 
I  cannot  let  you  continue  in  your  error;  and  yet,  perhaps, 
since  my  manners  gave  such  an  impression,  I  have  as  much 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  confessing  that  I  never  have  been 
at  all  attached  to  the  person  we  are  speaking  of,  as  it  might 
be  natural  for  a  woman  to  feel  in  confessing  exactly  the 
reverse.  But  I  never  have."  . 

"  He  is  a  most  fortunate  man,"  returned  Mr.  Knightley 
with  energy.  "  So  early  in  life — at  three-and-twenty — a 
period  when,  if  a  man  chooses  a  wife,  he  generally  chooses 
ill.  At  three-and-twenty  to  have  drawn  such  a  prize ! 
What  years  of  felicity  that  man,  in  all  human  calculation, 
has  before  him  !  " 


Henley. 


Explanations  139 

"You  speak  as  if  you  envied  him." 

"  And  I  do  envy  him,  Emma.  In  one  respect  he  is  the 
object  of  my  envy." 

Emma  could  say  no  more.  They  seemed  to  be  within 
half  a  sentence  of  Harriet,  and  her  immediate  feeling  was 
to  avert  the  subject,  if  possible.  She  made  her  plan ;  she 
would  speak  of  something  totally  different — the  children  in 
Brunswick  Square ;  and  she  only  waited  for  breath  to  be- 
gin, when  Mr.  Knightley  startled  her,  by  saying, — 

"  You  will  not  ask  me  what  is  the  point  of  envy.  You 
are  determined,  I  see,  to  have  no  curiosity.  You  are  wise 
— but  1  cannot  be  wise.  Emma,  I  must  tell  you  what  you 
will  not  ask,  though  I  may  wish  it  unsaid  the  next  mo- 
ment." 

"  Oh,  then,  don't  speak  it,  don't  speak  it,"  she  eagerly 
cried.  "  Take  a  little  time,  consider,  do  not  commit  your- 
self." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  in  an  accent  of  deep  mortifica- 
tion, and  not  another  syllable  followed. 

Emma  could  not  bear  to  give  him  pain.  He  was  wish- 
ing to  confide  in  her — perhaps  to  consult  her  ; — cost  her 
what  it  would,  she  would  listen.  She  might  assist  his  reso- 
lution, or  reconcile  him  to  it;  she  might  give  just  praise  to 
Harriet,  or,  by  representing  to  him  his  own  independence, 
relieve  him  from  that  state  of  indecision,  which  must  be 
more  intolerable  than  any  alternative  to  such  a  mind  as  his. 
They  had  reached  the  house. 

"  You  are  going  in,  I  suppose,"  said  he. 

"  No,"  replied  Emma,  quite  confirmed  by  the  depressed 
manner  in  which  he  still  spoke,  "  I  should  like  to  take  an- 
other turn.  Mr.  Perry  is  not  gone."  And,  after  proceed- 
ing a  few  steps,  she  added, — "  I  stopped  you  ungraciously, 
just  now,  Mr.  Knightley,  and,  I  am  afraid,  gave  you  pain. 
But  if  you  have  any  wish  to  speak  openly  to  me  as  a  friend, 
or  to  ask  my  opinion  of  anything  that  you  may  have  in 
contemplation — as  a  friend,  indeed,  you  may  command  me. 
I  will  hear  whatever  you  like.  I  will  tell  you  exactly  what 
I  think." 

"  As  a  friend  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Knightley.  "  Emma,  that 
I  fear  is  a  word No,  I  have  no  wish.  Stay.  Yes, 


140     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

why  should  I  hesitate  ?  I  have  gone  too  far  already  for 
concealment.  Emma,  I  accept  your  offer,  extraordinary  as 
it  may  seem,  I  accept  it,  and  refer  myself  to  you  as  a 
friend.  Tell  me,  then,  have  I  no  chance  of  ever  succeed- 
ing?" 

He  stopped  in  his  earnestness  to  look  the  question,  and 
the  expression  of  his  eyes  overpowered  her. 

"My  dearest  Emma,"  said  he,  "for  dearest  you  will  al- 
ways be,  whatever  the  event  of  this  hour's  conversation, 
my  dearest,  most  beloved  Emma, — tell  me  at  once.  Say 
4  No,'  if  it  is  to  be  said."  She  could  really  say  nothing. 
"  You  are  silent,"  he  cried,  with  great  animation  j  "  abso- 
lutely silent !  at  present  I  ask  no  more." 

Emma  was  almost  ready  to  sink  under  the  agitation  of 
this  moment.  The  dread  of  being  awakened  from  the 
happiest  dream  was  perhaps  the  most  prominent  feeling. 

"I  cannot  make  speeches,  Emma,"  he  soon  resumed, 
and  in  a  tone  of  such  sincere,  decided,  intelligible  tender- 
ness as  was  tolerably  convincing.  "  If  I  loved  you  less,  I 
might  be  able  to  talk  about  it  more.  But  you  know  what  I 
am.  You  hear  nothing  but  truth  from  me.  I  have  blamed 
you,  and  lectured  you,  and  you  have  borne  it  as  no  other 
woman  in  England  would  have  borne  it.  Bear  with  the 
truths  I  would  tell  you  now,  dearest  Emma,  as  well  as  you 
have  borne  with  them.  The  manner,  perhaps,  may  have 
as  little  to  recommend  them.  God  knows,  I  have  been  a 
very  indifferent  lover.  But  you  understand  me.  Yes,  you 
see,  you  understand  my  feelings — and  will  return  them  if 
you  can.  At  present,  I  ask  only  to  hear,  once  to  hear  your 
voice." 

She  spoke  then,  on  being  so  entreated.  What  does  she 
say  ?  Just  what  she  ought,  of  course.  A  lady  always 
does.  She  said  enough  to  show  there  need  not  be  despair 
— and  to  invite  him  to  say  more  himself.  He  bad  despaired 
at  one  period;  he  had  received  such  an  injunction  to  cau- 
tion and  silence,  as  for  the  time  crushed  every  hope  ; — she 
had  begun  by  refusing  to  hear  him.  The  change  had  per- 
haps been  somewhat  sudden  ; — her  proposal  of  taking  an- 
other turn,  her  renewing  the  conversation  which  she  had 
just  put  an  end  to,  might  be  a  little  extraordinary.  She 


Explanations  141 

felt  its  inconsistency  ;  but  Mr.  Knightley  was  so  obliging  as 
to  put  up  with  it,  and  seek  no  further  explanation. 

Seldom,  very  seldom,  does  complete  truth  belong  to  any 
human  disclosure  ;  seldom  can  it  happen  that  something  is 
not  a  little  disguised,  or  a  little  mistaken ;  but  where,  as  in 
this  case,  though  the  conduct  is  mistaken,  the  feelings  are 
not,  it  may  not  be  very  material.  Mr.  Knightley  could  not 
impute  to  Emma  a  more  relenting  heart  than  she  possessed, 
or  a  heart  more  disposed  to  accept  of  his. 

What  totally  different  feelings  did  Emma  take  back  into 
the  house  from  what  she  had  brought  out ! — she  had  then 
been  only  daring  to  hope  for  a  little  respite  of  suffering ; 
she  was  now  in  an  exquisite  flutter  of  happiness,  and  such 
happiness,  moreover,  as  she  believed  must  still  be  greater 
when  the  flutter  should  have  passed  away. 

They  sat  down  to  tea — the  same  party  round  the  same 
table — how  often  it  had  been  collected  !  and  how  often  had 
her  eyes  fallen  on  the  same  shrubs  on  the  lawn  and  observed 
the  same  beautiful  effect  of  the  western  sun  !  But  never 
in  such  a  state  of  spirits,  never  in  anything  like  it ;  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  she  could  summon  enough  of  her 
usual  self  to  be  the  attentive  lady  of  the  house,  or  even  the 
attentive  daughter. 

Poor  Mr.  Woodhouse  little  suspected  what  was  plotting 
against  him  in  the  breast  of  the  man  whom  he  was  so  cor- 
dially welcoming,  and  so  anxiously  hoping  might  not  have 
taken  cold  from  his  ride.  Could  he  have  seen  the  heart, 
he  would  have  cared  very  little  for  the  lungs ;  but  without 
the  most  distant  imagination  of  ihe  impending  evil,  without 
the  slightest  perception  of  anything  extraordinary  in  the 
looks  or  ways  of  either,  he  repeated  to  them  very  comfort- 
ably all  the  articles  of  news  he  had  received  from  Mr. 
Perry,  and  talked  on  with  much  self-contentment,  totally 
unsuspicious  of  what  they  could  have  told  him  in  return. 

(Emma,  London,  1816?) 


142     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 


LOVE  AND  FATE 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

Lovelier  in  her  own  retired  abode 

than  Naiad  by  the  side 

Of  Grecian  brook — or  Lady  of  the  Mere 
Lone  sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  romance. 

—  Wonts-worth. 

'TPHE  meditations  of  Ravenswood  were  of  a  very  mixed 
complexion.  He  saw  himself  at  once  in  the  very 
dilemma  which  he  had  for  some  time  felt  apprehensive  he 
might  be  placed  in.  The  pleasure  he  felt  in  Lucy's  com- 
pany had  indeed  approached  to  fascination,  yet  it  had  never 
altogether  surmounted  his  internal  reluctance  to  wed  with 
the  daughter  of  his  father's  foe;  and  even  in  forgiving  Sir 
William  Ashton  the  injuries  which  his  family  had  received, 
and  giving  him  credit  for  the  kind  intentions  he  professed 
to  entertain,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  contemplate  as 
possible  an  alliance  betwixt  their  houses.  Still  he  felt  that 
Alice  spoke  truth,  and  that. his  honour  now  required  he 
should  take  an  instant  leave  of  Ravenswood  Castle,  or  be- 
come a  suitor  of  Lucy  Ashton.  The  possibility  of  being 
rejected,  too,  should  he  make  advances  to  her  wealthy  and 
powerful  father — to  sue  for  the  hand  of  an  Ashton  and  be 
refused — this  were  a  consummation  too  disgraceful.  "  I 
wish  her  well,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  for  her  sake  I  for- 
give the  injuries  her  father  has  done  to  my  house;  but  I 
will  never — no,  never  see  her  more  !  " 

With  one  bitter  pang  he  adopted  this  resolution,  just 
as  he  came  to  where  two  paths  parted ;  the  one  to  the 
Mermaiden's  Fountain,  where  he  knew  Lucy  waited  him, 
the  other  leading  to  the  castle  by  another  and  more  cir- 
cuitous road.  He  paused  an  instant  when  about  to  take  the 
latter  path,  thinking  what  apology  he  should  make  for  con- 
duct which  must  needs  seem  extraordinary,  and  had  just 
muttered  to  himself,  "  Sudden  news  from  Edinburgh — any 


Love  and  Fate  143 

pretext  will  serve — only  let  me  dally  no  longer  here,"  when 
young  Henry  came  flying  up  to  him,  half  out  of  breath — 
"  Master,  Master,  you  must  give  Lucy  your  arm  back  to 
the  castle,  for  I  cannot  give  her  mine  ;  for  Norman  is 
waiting  for  me,  and  I  am  to  go  with  him  to  make  his  ring- 
walk,  and  I  would  not  stay  away  for  a  gold  Jacobus,  and 
Lucy  is  afraid  to  walk  home  alone,  though  all  the  wild  nowt 
have  been  shot,  and  so  you  must  come  away  directly." 

Betwixt  two  scales  equally  loaded,  a  feather's  weight  will 
turn  the  scale.  "  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  leave  the  young 
lady  in  the  wood  alone,"  said  Ravenswood ;  "  to  see  her 
once  more  can  be  of  little  consequence,  after  the  frequent 
meetings  we  have  had — I  ought,  too,  in  courtesy,  to  apprise 
her  of  my  intention  to  quit  the  castle." 

And  having  thus  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  taking  not 
only  a  wise,  but  an  absolutely  necessary  step,  he  took  the 
path  to  the  fatal  fountain.  Henry  no  sooner  saw  him  on 
the  way  to  join  his  sister,  than  he  was  off  like  lightning  in 
another  direction,  to  enjoy  the  society  of  the  forester  in 
their  congenial  pursuits.  Ravenswood,  not  allowing  him- 
self to  give  a  second  thought  to  the  propriety  of  his  own 
conduct,  walked  with  a  quick  step  towards  the  stream, 
where  he  found  Lucy  seated  alone  by  the  ruin. 

She  sate  upon  one  of  the  disjointed  stones  of  the  ancient 
fountain,  and  seemed  to  watch  the  progress  of  its  current, 
as  it  bubbled  forth  to  daylight,  in  gay  and  sparkling  pro- 
fusion, from  under  the  shadow  of  the  ribbed  and  darkspme 
vault,  with  which  veneration,  or  perhaps  remorse,  had  can- 
opied its  source.  To  a  superstitious  eye,  Lucy  Ashton, 
folded  in  her  plaided  mantle,  with  her  long  hair  escaping 
partly  from  the  snood  and  falling  upon  her  silver  neck,  might 
have  suggested  the  idea  of  the  murdered  Nymph  of  the 
Fountain.  But  Ravenswood  only  saw  a  female  exquisitely 
beautiful,  and  rendered  yet  more  so  in  his  eyes — how  could 
it  be  otherwise  ! — by  the  consciousness  that  she  had  placed 
her  affections  on  him.  As  he  gazed  on  her,  he  felt  his 
fixed  resolution  melting  like  wax  in  the  sun,  and  hastened, 
therefore,  from  his  concealment  in  the  neighbouring  thicket. 
She  saluted  him,  but  did  not  arise  from  the  stone  on  which 
she  was  seated. 


144     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

"  My  madcap  brother,"  she  said,  "  has  left  me,  but  I  ex- 
pect him  back  in  a  few  minutes — for  fortunately,  as  any- 
thing pleases  him  for  a  minute,  nothing  has  charms  for  him 
much  longer." 

Ravenswood  did  not  feel  the  power  of  informing  Lucy 
that  her  brother  meditated  a  distant  excursion,  and  would 
not  return  in  haste.  He  sate  himself  down  on  the  grass, 
at  some  little  distance  from  Miss  Ashton,  and  both  were 
silent  for  a  short  space. 

"  I  like  this  spot,"  said  Lucy  at  length,  as  if  she  had 
found  the  silence  embarrassing  ;  "  the  bubbling  murmur  of 
the  clear  fountain,  the  waving  of  the  trees,  the  profusion 
of  grass  and  wild-flowers,  that  rise  among  the  ruins,  make  it 
like  a  scene  in  romance.  I  think,  too,  I  have  heard  it  is  a 
spot  connected  with  the  legendary  lore  which  I  love  so  well." 

"It  has  been  thought,"  answered  Ravenswood,  "a  fatal 
spot  to  my  family  ;  and  I  have  some  reason  to  term  it  so, 
for  it  was  here  I  first  saw  Miss  Ashton — and  it  is  here  I 
must  take  leave  of  her  forever." 

The  blood,  which  the  first  part  of  this  speech  called  into 
Lucy's  cheeks,  was  speedily  expelled  by  its  conclusion. 

"To  take  leave  of  us,  Master  !  "  she  exclaimed ;  "  what 
can  have  happened  to  hurry  you  away  ?  I  know  Alice 
hates — I  mean  dislikes  my  father — and  I  hardly  understood 
her  humour  to-day,  it  was  so  mysterious.  But  I  am  certain 
my  father  is  sincerely  grateful  for  the  high  service  you  ren- 
dered us.  Let  me  hope  that  having  won  your  friendship 
hardly,  we  shall  not  lose  it  lightly." 

"Lose  it,  Miss  Ashton?"  said  the  Master  of  Ravens- 
wood.  "  No — wherever  my  fortune  calls  me — whatever 
she  inflicts  upon  me — it  is  your  friend — your  sincere  friend, 
who  acts  or  suffers.  But  there  is  a  fate  on  me,  and  I  must 
go,  or  I  shall  add  the  ruin  of  others  to  my  own." 

"Yet  do  not  go  from  us,  Master,"  said  Lucy;  and  she 
laid  her  hand,-  in  all  simplicity  and  kindness,  upon  the  skirt 
of  his  cloak,  as  if  to  detain  him.  "You  shall  not  part 
from  us.  My  father  is  powerful,  he  has  friends  that  are 
more  so  than  himself — do  not  go  till  you  see  what  his  grati- 
tude will  do  for  you.  Believe  me,  he  is  already  labouring 
in  your  behalf  with  the  Council." 


Love  and  Fate  145 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  the  Master,  proudly;  "yet  it  is  not 
to  your  father,  Miss  Ashton,  but  to  my  own  exertions,  that 
I  ought  to  owe  success  in  the  career  on  which  I  am  about 
to  enter.  My  preparations  are  already  made — a  sword  and 
a  cloak,  and  a  bold  heart  and  a  determined  hand." 

Lucy  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  the  tears,  in 
spite  of  her,  forced  their  way  between  her  fingers.  "  For- 
give me,"  said  Ravenswood,  taking  her  right  hand,  which, 
after  slight  resistance,  she  yielded  to  him,  still  continuing 
to  shade  her  face  with  the  left —  "  I  am  too  rude — too 
rough — too  intractable  to  deal  with  any  being  so  soft  and 
gentle  as  you  are.  Forget  that  so  stern  a  vision  has  crossed 
your  path  of  life — and  let  me  pursue  mine,  sure  that  I  can 
meet  with  no  worse  misfortune  after  the  moment  it  divides 
me  from  your  side." 

Lucy  wept  on,  but  her  tears  were  less  bitter.  Each 
attempt  which  the  Master  made  to  explain  his  purpose  of 
departure,  only  proved  a  new  evidence  of  his  desire  to  stay ; 
until,  at  length,  instead  of  bidding  her  farewell,  he  gave  his 
faith  to  her  forever,  and  received  her  troth  in  return.  The 
whole  passed  so  suddenly,  and  arose  so  much  out  of  the 
immediate  impulse  of  the  moment  that  ere  the  Master  of 
Ravenswood  could  reflect  upon  the  consequences  of  the 
step  which  he  had  taken,  their  lips,  as  well  as  their  hands, 
had  pledged  the  sincerity  of  their  affection. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  "  it 
is  fit  I  should  speak  to  Sir  William  Ashton — he  must  know 
of  our  engagement.  Ravenswood  must  not  seem  to  dwell 
under  his  roof,  to  solicit  clandestinely  the  affections  of  his 
daughter." 

"  You  would  not  speak  to  my  father  on  the  subject  ? " 
said  Lucy,  doubtingly  ;  and  then  added  more  warmly,  "  Oh, 
do  not — do  not !  Let  your  lot  in  life  be  determined — your 
station  and  purpose  ascertained,  before  you  address  my 
father ;  I  am  sure  he  loves  you — I  think  he  will  consent — 
but  then  my  mother  ! " 

She  paused,  ashamed  to  express  the  doubt  she  felt 
how  far  her  father  dared  to  form  any  positive  resolution 
on  this  most  important  subject,  without  the  consent  of  his 
lady. 

"  Your  mother,  my  Lucy  ?  "  replied  Ravenswood,  "  she 


146     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

is  of  the  house  of  Douglas,  a  house  that  has  intermar- 
ried with  mine,  even  when  its  glory  and  power  were  at 
the  highest.  What  could  your  mother  object  to  my  al- 
liance ? " 

u  I  did  not  say  object,"  said  Lucy  ;  "  but  she  is  jealous 
of  her  rights,  and  may  claim  a  mother's  title  to  be  consulted 
in  the  first  instance." 

"  Be  it  so,"  replied  Ravenswood  ;  "  London  is  distant, 
but  a  letter  will  reach  it  and  receive  an  answer  within  a 
fortnight — I  will  not  press  on  the  Lord  Keeper  for  an  in- 
stant reply  to  my  proposal." 

"  But,"  hesitated  Lucy,  "  were  it  not  better  to  wait — to 
wait  a  few  weeks  ?  Were  my  mother  to  see  you — to  know 
you — I  am  sure  she  would  approve;  but  you  are  unac- 
quainted personally,  and  the  ancient  feud  between  the 
families " 

Ravenswood  fixed  upon  her  his  keen  dark  eyes,  as  if  he 
was  desirous  of  penetrating  into  her  very  soul. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  "  I  have  sacrificed  to  you  projects  of 
vengeance  long  nursed,  and  sworn  to  with  ceremonies  little 
better  than  heathen — I  sacrificed  them  to  your  image,  ere  I 
knew  the  worth  which  it  represented.  In  the  evening 
which  succeeded  my  poor  father's  funeral,  I  cut  a  lock 
from  my  hair,  and  as  it  consumed  in  the  fire,  I  swore  that 
my  rage  and  revenge  should  pursue  his  enemies,  until  they 
shriveled  before  me  like  that  scorched-up  symbol  of  anni- 
hilation." 

"It  was  a  deadly  sin,"  said  Lucy,  turning  pale,  "to 
make  a  vow  so  fatal." 

"  I  acknowledge  it,"  said  Ravenswood,  "  and  it  had  been 
a  worse  crime  to  keep  it.  It  was  for  your  sake  that  I  ab- 
jured these  purposes  of  vengeance,  though  I  scarce  knew 
that  such  was  the  argument  by  which  I  was  conquered,  un- 
til I  saw  you  once  more,  and  became  conscious  of  the  in- 
fluence you  possessed  over  me." 

"  And  why  do  you  now,"  said  Lucy,  "  recall  sentiments 
so  terrible — sentiments  so  inconsistent  with  those  you  pro- 
fess for  me — with  those  your  importunity  has  prevailed  on 
me  to  acknowledge  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  her  lover,  "  I  would  impress  on  you  the 


Love  and  Fate  147 

price  at  which  I  have  bought  your  love — the  right  I  have 
to  expect  your  constancy.  I  say  not  that  I  have  bartered 
for  it  the  honour  of  my  house,  its  last  remaining  possession 
— but  though  I  say  it  not,  and  think  it  not,  I  cannot  con- 
ceal from  myself  that  the  world  may  do  both." 

"  If  such  are  your  sentiments,"  said  Lucy,  "  you  have 
played  a  cruel  game  with  me.  But  it  is  not  too  late  to 
give  it  over — take  back  the  faith  and  troth  which  you  could 
not  plight  to  me  without  suffering  abatement  of  honour — 
let  what  is  passed  be  as  if  it  had  not  been — forget  me — I 
will  endeavour  to  forget  myself." 

"  You  do  me  injustice,"  said  the  Master  of  Ravenswood  ; 
"  by  all  I  hold  true  and  honourable,  you  do  me  the  ex- 
tremity of  injustice — if  I  mentioned  the  price  at  which  I 
have  bought  your  love,  it  is  only  to  show  how  much  I 
prize  it,  to  bind  our  engagement  by  a  still  firmer  tie,  and  to 
show,  by  what  I  have  done  to  attain  this  station  in  your 
regard,  how  much  I  must  suffer  should  you  ever  break  your 
faith." 

"  And  why,  Ravenswood,"  answered  Lucy,  "  should  you 
think  that  possible  ?  Why  should  you  urge  me  with  even 
the  mention  of  infidelity  ?  Is  it  because  I  ask  you  to  de- 
lay applying  to  my  father  for  a  little  space  of  time  ?  Bind 
me  by  what  vows  you  please  ;  if  vows  are  unnecessary  to 
secure  constancy,  they  may  yet  prevent  suspicion." 

Ravenswood  pleaded,  apologized,  and  even  kneeled,  to 
appease  her  displeasure  ;  and  Lucy,  as  placable  as  she  was 
single-hearted,  readily  forgave  the  offence  which  his  doubts 
had  implied.  The  dispute  thus  agitated,  however,  ended 
by  the  lovers  going  through  an  emblematic  ceremony  of 
their  troth-plight,  of  which  the  vulgar  still  preserve  some 
traces.  They  broke  betwixt  them  the  thin  broad-piece  of 
gold  which  Alice  had  refused  to  receive  from  Ravens- 
wood. 

"  And  never  shall  this  leave  my  bosom,"  said  Lucy,  as 
she  hung  the  piece  of  gold  round  her  neck,  and  concealed 
it  with  her  handkerchief,  "  until  you,  Edgar  Ravenswood, 
ask  me  to  resign  it  to  you — and,  while  I  wear  it,  never 
shall  that  heart  acknowledge  another  love  than  yours." 

With  like  protestations,  Ravenswood  placed  his  portion 


148     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

of  the  coin  opposite  to  his  heart.  And  now,  at  length,  it 
struck  them,  that  time  had  hurried  fast  on  during  this  in- 
terview, and  their  absence  at  the  castle  would  be  subject  of 
remark  if  not  alarm. 

( The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  Edinburgh,  /<?/p.) 


Love    Unto   Death  149 


LOVE  UNTO  DEATH 

LORD  BYRO 

A  ball  in  the  Palace.     Enter  an  ATTENDANT. 

O^£.  Slave,  tell, 

The  Ionian  Myrrha  we  would  crave  her  presence. 
Att.     King  she  is  here. 

MYRRH  A  enters. 

Sar.   [apart  to  ATT.].     Away  ! 
[Addressing  MYRRHA.]     Beautiful  being  ! 
Thou  dost  almost  anticipate  my  heart ; 
It  throbb'd  for  thee,  and  here  thou  comest ;  let  me 
Deem  that  some  unknown  influence,  some  sweet  oracle, 
Communicates  between  us,  though  unseen, 
In  absence,  and  attracts  us  to  each  other. 

Myr.     There  doth. 

Sar.  I  know  there  doth  ;  but  not  its  name ; 

What  is  it  ? 

Myr.              In  my  native  land  a  god, 
And  in  my  heart  a  feeling  like  a  god's, 
Exalted ;  yet  I  own  'tis  only  mortal, 
For  what  I  feel  is  humble,  and  yet  happy  — 
That  is,  it  would  be  happy  :  but [MYRRHA  pauses. 

Sar.  There  comes 

Forever  something  between  us  and  what 
We  deem  our  happiness  :  let  me  remove 
The  barrier  which  that  hesitating  accent 
Proclaims  to  thine,  and  mine  is  seal'd. 

Myr.  My  lord  ! 

Sar.     My  lord — my  king — sire — sovereign  !  thus  it  is  — 
Forever  thus,  address'd  with  awe.     I  ne'er 
Can  see  a  smile,  unless  in  some  broad  banquet's 
Intoxicating  glare,  when  the  buffoons 
Have  gorged  themselves  up  to  equality, 
Or  I  have  quaflf'd  me  down  to  their  abasement. 


150     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Myrrha,  I  can  hear  all  these  things,  these  names, 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay,  time  was  I  prized  them, 
That  is,  I  suffer'd  them — from  slaves  and  nobles ; 
But  when  they  falter  from  the  lips  I  love, 
The  lips  which  have  been  press'd  to  mine,  a  chill 
Comes  o'er  my  heart,  a  cold  sense  of  the  falsehood 
Of  this  my  station,  which  represses  feeling 
In  those  for  whom  I  have  felt  most,  and  makes  me 
Wish  that  I  could  lay  down  the  dull  tiara, 
And  share  a  cottage  on  the  Caucasus 
With  thee,  and  wear  no  crowns  but  those  of  flowers. 
Myr.     Would  that  we  could  ! 

Sar.  And  dost  thou  feel  this  ?• — Why  ? 

Myr.     Then  thou  wouldst  know  what  thou  canst  never 
know. 

Sar.     And  that  is 

Myr.  The  true  value  of  a  heart ; 

At  least  a  woman's. 

Sar.  I  have  proved  a  thousand  — 

A  thousand,  and  a  thousand. 

Myr.  Hearts  ? 

Sar.  I  think  so. 

Myr.     Not  one  !  the  time  may  come  thou  may'st. 
Sar.  It  will. 

Hear,  Myrrha;  Salemenes  has  declared  — 
Or  why  or  how  he  hath  divined  it,  Belus, 
Who  founded  our  great  realm,  knows  more  than  I  — 
But  Salemenes  hath  declared  my  throne 
In  peril. 

Myr.          He  did  well. 

Sar.  And  say'st  thou  so  ? 

Thou  whom  he  spurn'd  so  harshly,  and  now  dared 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers, 
And  made  thee  weep  and  blush  ? 

Myr.  I  should  do  both 

More  frequently,  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.     But  thou  speak'st  of  peril  — 

Peril  to  thee 

Sar.  Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 

From  Medes — and  discontented  troops  and  nations. 


Love    Unto   Death  151 

I  know  not  what — a  labyrinth  of  things  — 

A  maze  of  mutter'd  threats  and  mysteries : 

Thou  know'st  the  man — it  is  his  usual  custom. 

But  he  is  honest.     Come,  we'll  think  no  more  on't  — 

But  of  the  midnight  festival. 

Myr.  'Tis  time 

To  think  of  aught  save  festivals.     Thou  hast  not 
Spurn'd  his  sage  cautions  ? 

Sar.  What ! — and  dost  thou  fear  ? 

Myr.     Fear! — I'm    a    Greek,    and    how    should    I  fear 

death  ? 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  ? 

Sar.     Then  wherefore  dost  thou  turn  so  pale  ? 

Myr.  I  love. 

Sar.     And  do  not  I  ?     I  love  thee  far — far  more 
Than  either  the  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm, 
Which,  it  may  be,  are  menaced  : — yet  I  blench  not. 

Myr.     That  means  thou  lovest  not  thyself  nor  me ; 
For  he  who  loves  another  loves  himself, 
Even  for  that  other's  sake.     This  is  too  rash : 
Kingdoms  and  lives  are  not  to  be  so  lost. 

Sar.     Lost ! — why,  who  is  the  aspiring  chief  who  dared 
Assume  to  win  them  ? 

Myr.  Who  is  he  should  dread 

To  try  so  much  ?     When  he  who  is  their  ruler 
Forgets  himself,  will  they  remember  him  ? 

Sar.     Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Frown  not  upon  me  :  you  have  smiled 

Too  often  on  me  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
Which  they  may  augur. — King,  I  am  your  subject ! 
Master,  I  am  your  slave  !     Man,  I  have  loved  you  !- 
Loved  you,  I  know  not  by  what  fatal  weakness, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  born  a  foe  to  monarchs  — 
A  slave,  and  hating  fetters — an  Ionian, 
And,  therefore,  when  I  love  a  stranger,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains  ! 
Still  I  have  loved  you.     If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature, 
Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you  ? 


152     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Sar.     Save  me,  my  beauty  !     Thou  art  very  fair, 
And  what  I  seek  of  thee  is  love — not  safety. 

Myr.     And  without  love  where  dwells  security  ? 

Sar.     I  speak  of  woman's  love. 

Myr.  The  very  first 

Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman's  breast, 
Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from  her  lips, 
Your  first  tears  quench'd  by  her,  and  your  last  sighs 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing, 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led  them. 


Enter  an  OFFICER,  hastily. 

Sar.     Thy  face  seems  ominous.     Speak  ! 

Offi.  I  dare  not. 

Sar.  Dare  not  ? 

While  millions  dare  revolt  with  sword  in  hand ! 
That's  strange.     I  pray  thee  break  that  loyal  silence 
Which  loathes  to  shock  its  sovereign ;  we  can  hear 
Worse  than  thou  hast  to  tell. 

Pan.  Proceed,  thou  hearest. 

Offi.     The  wall  which  skirted  near  the  river's  brink 
Is  thrown  down  by  the  sudden  inundation 
Of  the  Euphrates,  which  now  rolling,  swoln 
From  the  enormous  mountains  where  it  rises, 
By  the  late  rains  of  that  tempestuous  region, 
O'er  floods  its  banks,  and  hath  destroy'd  the  bulwark. 

Pan.     That's  a  black  augury  !  it  has  been  said 
For  ages,  "  That  the  city  ne'er  should  yield 
To  man,  until  the  river  grew  its  foe." 

Sar.     I  can  forgive  the  omen,  not  the  ravage. 
How  much  is  swept  down  of  the  wall  ? 

Offi.  About 

Some  twenty  stadia. 

Sar.  '  And  all  this  is  left 

Previous  to  the  assailants  ? 

Offi.  For  the  present 

The  river's  fury  must  impede  the  assault ; 
But  when  he  shrinks  into  his  wonted  channel, 


Love    Unto   Death  153 

And  may  be  cross'd  by  the  accustom'd  barks, 
The  palace  is  their  own. 


Sar.     'Tis  enough.     Nor  order  here 
Fagots,  pine-nuts,  and  wither'd  leaves,  and  such 
Things  as  catch  fire  and  blaze  with  one  sole  spark ; 
Bring  cedar,  too,  and  precious  drugs,  and  spices, 
And  mighty  planks  to  nourish  a  tall  pile; 
Bring  frankincense  and  myrrh,  too,  for  it  is 
For  a  great  sacrifice  I  build  the  pyre  ! 
And  keep  them  round  yon  throne. 

****** 

Higher,  my  good  soldiers, 
And  thicker  yet ;  and  see  that  the  foundation 
Be  such  as  will  not  speedily  exhaust 
Its  own  too  subtle  flame ;  nor  yet  be  quench'd 
With  aught  officious  aid  would  bring  to  quell  it. 
Let  the  throne  form  the  core  of  it ;  I  would  not 
Leave  that,  save  frought  with  fire  unquenchable, 
To  the  newcomers.     Frame  the  whole  as  if 
'Twere  to  enkindle  the  strong  tower  of  our 
Inveterate  enemies.     Now  it  bears  an  aspect ! 
How  say  you,  Pania,  will  this  pile  suffice 
For  a  king's  obsequies  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  for  a  kingdom's. 

I  understand  you,  now. 

Sar.  And  blame  me  ? 

Pan.  No 

Let  me  but  fire  the  pile,  and  share  it  with  you. 

Myr.     That  duty's  mine. 

Pan.  A  woman's  ! 

Myr.  'Tis  the  soldier's 

Part  to  die  for  his  sovereign,  and  why  not 
The  woman's  with  her  lover  ? 


These  men  were  honest :  it  is  comfort  still 
That  our  last  looks  shall  be  on  loving  faces. 

Sar.     And  lovely  ones,  my  beautiful ! — but  hear  me  ! 


154     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

If  at  this  moment,  for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink,  thou  feel'st  an  inward  shrinking  from 
This  leap  through  flame  into  the  future,  say  it : 
I  shall  not  love  thee  less  ;  nay,  perhaps  more, 
For  yielding  to  thy  nature  :  and  there's  time 
Yet  for  thee  to  escape  hence. 

Myr.  Shall  I  light 

One  of  the  torches  which  lie  heap'd  beneath 
The  ever-burning  lamp  that  burns  without, 
Before  Baal's  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall  ? 

Sar.     Do  so.     Is  that  thy  answer  ? 

Myr.  Thou  shalt  see. 

[Exit  MYRRHA. 

Sar.  [solus].    She's  firm.    My  fathers  !  whom  I  will  rejoin, 
It  may  be,  purified  by  death  from  some 
Of  the  gross  stains  of  too  material  being, 
I  would  not  leave  your  ancient  first  abode 
To  the  defilement  of  usurping  bondmen  ; 
If  I  have  not  kept  your  inheritance 
As  ye  bequeath'd  it,  this  bright  part  of  it, 
Your  treasure,  your  abode,  your  sacred  relics 
Of  arms,  and  records,  monuments,  and  spoils, 
In  which  they  would  have  revell'd,  I  bear  with  me 
To  you  in  that  absorbing  element, 
Which  most  personifies  the  soul,  as  leaving 
The  least  of  matter  unconsumed  before 
Its  fiery  working  : — and  the  light  of  this 
Most  royal  of  funereal  pyres  shall  be 
Not  a  mere  pillar  form'd  of  cloud  and  flame, 
A  beacon  in  the  horizon  for  a  day, 
And  then  a  mount  of  ashes,  but  a  light 
To  lessen  ages,  rebel  nations,  and 
.Voluptuous  princes.     Time  shall  quench  full  many 
A  people's  records,  and  a  hero's  acts ; 
Sweep  empire  after  empire,  like  this  first 
Of  empires,  into  nothing  ;  but  even  then 
Shall  spare  this  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 
A  problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  none 
Despise — but,  it  may  be,  avoid  the  life 
Which  led  to  such  a  consummation. 


Love    Unto   Death  155 

[MYRRH A  returns  with  a  lighted  Torch  in  one  Hand, 
and  a  Cup  in  the  other. 

Myr,  Lo ! 

I've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

Sar.     And  the  cup  ? 

Myr.  'Tis  my  country's  custom  to 

Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

Sar.  And  mine 

To  make  libations  amongst  men.     I've  not 
Forgot  the  custom  ;  and,  although  alone, 
Will  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past. 

[SARDANAPALUS   takes   the  cup,  and  after  drinking  and 
tinkling  the  reversed  cup,  as  a  drop  falls,  exclaims  — 

And  this  libation 
Is  for  the  excellent  Beleses. 

Myr.  Why 

Dwells  thy  mind  rather  upon  that  man's  name 
Than  on  his  mate's  in  villany  ? 

Sar.  The  one 

Is  a  mere  soldier,  a  mere  tool,  a  kind 
Of  human  sword  in  a  fiend's  hand;  the  other 
Is  master-mover  of  his  warlike  puppet; 
But  I  dismiss  them  from  my  mind. — Yet  pause, 
My  Myrrha!  dost  thou  truly  follow  me, 
Freely  and  fearlessly  ? 

Myr.  And  dost  thou  think 

A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom  ? 

Sar.  Then 

We  but  await  the  signal. 

Myr.  It  is  long 

In  sounding. 

Sar.  Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace  ! 

Myr.     Embrace,  but  not  the  last ;  there  is  one  more. 

Sar.     True,  the  commingling  fire  will  mix  our  ashes. 

Myr.     And  pure  as  in  my  love  to  thee,  shall  they, 
Purged  from  the  dross  of  earth,  and  earthly  passion, 
Mix  pale  with  thine.     A  single  thought  yet  irks  me. 


156     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Sar.     Say  it. 

Myr,         It  is  that  no  kind  hand  will  gather 
The  dust  of  both  into  one  urn. 

Sar.  The  better ! 

Rather  let  them  be  borne  abroad  upon 
The  winds  of  heaven,  and  scatter'd  into  air, 
Than  be  polluted  more  by  human  hands 
Of  slaves  and  traitors ;  in  this  blazing  palace, 
And  its  enormous  walls  of  reeking  ruin, 
We  leave  a  nobler  monument  than  Egypt 
Hath  piled  in  her  brick  mountains  o'er  dead  kings, 
Or  kine,  for  none  know  whether  those  proud  piles 
Be  for  their  monarch,  or  their  ox-god  Apis : 
So  much  for  monuments  that  have  forgotten 
Their  very  record  ! 

Myr.  Then  farewell,  thou  earth  ! 

And  loveliest  spot  of  earth  !  farewell,  Ionia  ! 
Be  thou  still  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation !     My  last  prayer 
Was  for  thee,  my  last  thoughts,  save  one,  were  of  thee  ! 

Sar.     And  that? 

Myr.         Is  yours. 

[  The  trumpet  of  PANIA  sounds  without. 

Sar.  Hark  ! 

Myr.  Now  I 

Sar.  Adieu,  Assyria ! 

I  loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  father's  land, 
And  better  as  my  country  than  my  kingdom. 
I  satiated  thee  with  peace  and  joys  ;  and  this 
Is  my  reward  !  and  now  I  owe  thee  nothing, 
Not  even  a  grave.  [He  mounts  the  pile. 

Now,  Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Art  thou  ready  ? 

Sar.     As  the  torch  in  thy  grasp. 

[MYRRHA  fires  the  pile. 

Myr.  'Tis  fired!  I  come. 

[As  MYRRHA  springs  forward  to  throw  herself  into  the 
flames,  the  curtain  falls. 

(Sardanapalus,  London,  1821.) 


Oriental  Craft  157 


ORIENTAL  CRAFT 

JAMES  MORIER 

'"IPHE  spring  had  passed  over,  and  the  first  heats  of  sum- 
mer,  which  now  began  to  make  themselves  felt,  had 
driven  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  to  spread  their 
beds  and  sleep  on  the  house-tops.  As  I  did  not  like  to  pass 
my  night  in  company  with  the  servants,  the  carpet-spreaders 
and  the  cook,  who  generally  herded  together  in  a  room  be- 
low, I  extended  my  bed  in  a  corner  of  the  terrace,  which 
overlooked  the  inner  court  of  the  doctor's  house,  in  which 
were  situated  the  apartments  of  the  women.  This  court 
was  a  square,  into  which  the  windows  of  the  different 
chambers  looked,  and  was  planted  in  the  centre  with  rose- 
bushes, jessamines,  and  poplar  trees.  A  square  wooden 
platform  was  erected  in  the  middle,  upon  which  mattresses 
were  spread,  where  the  inhabitants  reposed  during  the  great 
heats.  I  had  seen  several  women  seated  in  different  parts  of 
the  court,  but  had  never  been  particularly  struck  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  any  one  of  them ;  and  indeed  had  I  been  so, 
perhaps  I  should  never  have  thought  of  looking  at  them 
again  ;  for  as  soon  as  I  was  discovered,  shouts  of  abuse 
were  levelled  at  me,  and  I  was  called  by  every  odious  name 
that  they  could  devise. 

One  night,  however,  soon  after  the  sun  had  set,  as  I  was 
preparing  my  bed,  I  perchance  looked  over  a  part  of  the 
wall  that  was  a  little  broken  down,  and  on  a  slip  of  terrace 
that  was  close  under  it  I  discovered  a  female,  who  was  em- 
ployed in  assorting  and  spreading  out  tobacco-leaves.  Her 
blue  veil  was  negligently  thrown  over  her  head,  and  as  she 
stooped,  the  two  long  tresses  which  flowed  from  her  fore- 
head hung  down  in  so  tantalizing  a  manner  as  nearly  to 
screen  all  her  face,  but  still  left  so  much  of  it  visible,  that 
it  created  an  intense  desire  in  me  to  see  the  remainder. 
Everything  that  I  saw  in  her  announced  beauty.  Her 
hands  were  small,  and  dyed  with  khenna  ;  her  feet  were 


158     Lave  in   Literature  and  Art 

equally  small ;  and  her  whole  air  and  form  bespoke  loveli- 
ness and  grace.  I  gazed  upon  her  until  I  could  no  longer 
contain  my  passion  ;  I  made  a  slight  noise,  which  immedi- 
ately caused  her  to  look  up,  and  before  she  could  cover 
herself  with  her  veil,  I  had  had  time  to  see  the  most  en- 
chanting features  that  the  imagination  can  conceive,  and  to 
receive  a  look  from  eyes  so  bewitching,  that  I  immediately 
felt  my  heart  in  a  blaze.  With  apparent  displeasure  she 
covered  herself;  but  still  I  could  perceive  that  she  had 
managed  her  veil  with  so  much  art,  that  there  was  room 
for  a  certain  dark  and  sparkling  eye  to  look  at  me,  and  to 
enjoy  my  agitation.  As  I  continued  to  gaze  upon  her, 
she  at  length  said,  though  still  going  on  with  her  work, 
"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  ?  It  is  criminal." 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  sainted  Hosien,"  I  exclaimed, 
"  do  not  turn  from  me ;  it  is  no  crime  to  love ;  your  eyes 
have  made  roast  meat  of  my  heart ;  by  the  mother  that 
bore  you,  let  me  look  in  your  face  again." 

In  a  more  subdued  voice  she  answered  me,  "  Why  do 
you  ask  me  ?  You  know  it  is  a  crime  for  a  woman  to  let 
her  face  be  seen  ;  and  you  are  neither  my  father,  my 
brother,  nor  my  husband ;  I  do  not  even  know  who  you 
are.  Have  you  no  shame,  to  talk  thus  to  a  maid  ?  " 

At  this  moment  she  let  her  veil  fall,  as  if  by  chance,  and 
J  had  time  to  look  again  upon  her  face,  which  was  even 
more  beautiful  than  I  had  imagined.  Her  eyes  were  large 
and  peculiarly  black,  and  fringed  by  long  lashes,  which, 
aided  by  the  collyrium  with  which  they  were  tinged,  formed 
a  sort  of  ambuscade,  from  which  she  levelled  her  shafts. 
Her  eyebrows  were  finely  arched,  and  nature  had  brought 
them  together  just  over  her  nose,  in  so  strong  a  line,  that 
there  was  no  need  of  art  to  join  them  together.  Her  nose 
was  aquiline,  her  mouth  small,  and  full  of  sweet  expres- 
sion ;  and  in  the  centre  of  her  chin  was  a  dimple  which 
she  kept  carefully  marked  with  a  blue  puncture.  Nothing 
could  equal  the  beauty  of  her  hair;  it  was  black  as  jet,  and 
fell  in  long  tresses  down  her  back.  In  short,  I  was 
wrapped  in  amazement  at  her  beauty.  The  sight  of  her 
explained  to  me  many  things  which  I  had  read  in  our  poets, 
of  cypress  forms,  tender  fawns,  and  sugar-eating  parrots. 


Oriental  Craft  159 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  gaze  at  her  forever,  and  not  be 
tired ;  but  still  I  felt  a  great  desire  to  leap  over  the  wall  and 
touch  her.  My  passion  was  increasing,  and  I  was  on  the 
point  of  approaching  her,  when  I  heard  the  name  of  Zeenab 
repeated  several  times,  with  great  impatience,  by  a  loud, 
shrill  voice ;  upon  which  my  fair  one  left  the  terrace  in 
haste,  and  I  remained  riveted  to  the  place  where  I  had  first 
seen  her.  I  continued  there  for  a  long  time,  in  the  hope 
that  she  might  return,  but  to  no  purpose.  I  lent  my  ear  to 
every  noise,  but  nothing  was  to  be  heard  below  but  the 
same  angry  voice,  which,  by  turns,  appeared  to  attack 
everything,  and  everybody,  and  which  could  belong  to  no 
one  but  the  doctor's  wife ;  a  lady,  who,  as  report  would 
have  it,  was  none  of  the  mildest  of  her  sex,  and  who  kept 
her  good  man  in  great  subjection. 

The  day  had  now  entirely  closed  in,  and  I  was  about 
retiring  to  my  bed  in  despair,  when  the  voice  was  heard 
again,  exclaiming,  "  Zeenab,  where  are  you  going  to  ? 
Why  do  you  not  retire  to  bed  ?  " 

I  indistinctly  heard  the  answer  of  my  charmer,  but  soon 
guessed  what  it  had  been,  when  I  saw  her  appear  on  the 
terrace  again.  My  heart  beat  violently,  and  I  was  about  to 
leap  over  the  wall,  which  separated  us,  when  I  was  stopped 
by  seeing  her  taking  up  a  basket,  in  which  she  had 
gathered  her  tobacco,  and  make  a  hasty  retreat ;  but  just  as 
she  was  disappearing,  she  said  to  me,  in  a  low  tone  of 
voice,  "  Be  here  to-morrow  night."  These  words  thrilled 
through  my  whole  frame,  in  a  manner  that  I  had  never  be- 
fore felt,  and  I  did  not  cease  to  repeat  them,  and  ponder 
over  them  until,  through  exhaustion,  I  fell  into  a  feverish 
doze,  and  I  did  not  awaken  on  the  following  morning  until 
the  beams  of  the  sun  shone  brightly  in  my  face. 

"  So,"  said  I,  when  I  had  well  rubbed  my  eyes :  "  so 
now  I  am  in  love  ?  Well !  we  shall  see  what  will  come 
of  it ;  and  if  she  is  anything  which  belongs  to  the  doctor, 
may  his  house  be  ruined  if  I  do  not  teach  him  to  keep  a 
better  watch  over  his  property.  As  for  marriage,  that  is 
out  of  the  question.  Who  would  give  a  wife  to  me ;  I 
who  have  not  even  enough  to  buy  myself  a  pair  of  trou- 
sers, much  less  to  defray  the  expenses  of  a  wedding  ?  In- 


160     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

shallab,  please  God,  that  will  take  place  one  of  these  days, 
whenever  I  shall  have  got  together  some  money  ;  but  now 
I  will  make  play  with  love,  and  let  the  doctor  pay  for  it." 

With  that  intention  I  forthwith  got  up  and  dressed  my- 
self; but  it  was  with  more  care  than  usual.  I  combed  my 
curls  a  great  deal  more  than  ordinary ;  I  studied  the  tie  of 
my  girdle,  and  put  my  cap  on  one  side.  Then  having 
rolled  up  my  bed,  and  carried  it  into  the  servants'  hall,  I 
issued  from  home,  with  the  intention  of  going;  to  the  bath, 

J  1    •  DO 

and  making  my  person  sweet,  preparatory  to  my  evening  s 
assignation.  I  went  to  the  bath,  where  I  passed  a  great 
part  of  my  morning  in  singing,  and  spent  the  remainder  of 
the  time,  until  the  hour  of  meeting,  in  rambling  about  the 
town  without  any  precise  object  in  view. 

At  length,  the  day  drew  towards  its  close  ;  my  impatience 
had  reached  its  height,  and  I  only  waited  for  the  termina- 
tion of  the  sham,  or  the  evening's  meal,  to  feign  a  headache, 
and  to  retire  to  rest.  My  ill  luck  would  have  it,  that  the 
doctor  was  detained  longer  than  usual  in  his  attendance 
upon  the  Shah,  and  as  the  servants  dined  after  him,  and  ate 
his  leavings,  it  was  late  before  I  was  at  liberty.  When 
that  moment  arrived,  I  was  in  a  fever  of  expectation  :  the 
last  glimmering  of  day  tinged  the  western  sky  with  a  light 
shade  of  red,  and  the  moon  was  just  rising,  when  I  ap- 
peared on  the  terrace  with  my  bed  under  my  arm.  I  threw 
it  down  and  unfolded  it  in  haste,  and  then,  with  a  beating 
heart,  flew  to  the  broken  wall.  I  looked  over  it  with  great 
precaution ;  but,  to  my  utter  disappointment,  I  saw  noth- 
ing but  the  tobacco  spread  about  in  confused  heaps,  with 
baskets  here  and  there,  as  if  some  work  had  been  left  un- 
finished. I  looked  all  around,  but  saw  no  Zeenab.  I 
coughed  once  or  twice ;  no  answer.  The  only  sound 
which  reached  my  ears  was  the  voice  of  the  doctor's  wife, 
exerting  itself  upon  some  one  within  the  house,  although 
its  shrillness  pierced  even  the  walls  ;  yet  I  could  not  make 
out  what  was  the  cause  of  its  being  so  excited,  until  of  a 
sudden,  it  burst  into  the  open  air  with  increasing  violence. 

"  You  talk  of  work  to  me,  you  daughter  of  the  devil ! 
Who  told  you  to  go  to  the  bath  ?  What  business  had  you 
at  the  tombs  ?  I  suppose  I  am  to  be  your  slave,  and  you 


Oriental  Craft  161 

are  to  take  your  pleasure.  Why  is  not  your  work  done  ? 
You  shall  neither  eat,  drink,  nor  sleep,  until  it  is  done,  so 
go  to  it  immediately  ;  and  if  you  come  away  until  it  be 
finished,  wallah  !  billah !  by  the  prophet,  I  will  beat  you 
till  your  nails  drop  off."  Upon  this  I  heard  some  pushing 
and  scuffling,  and  immediately  perceived  my  fair  one  pro- 
ceeding with  apparent  reluctance  to  the  spot,  which  not  a 
moment  before,  I  had  despaired  of  seeing  blessed  with  her 
presence.  Oh  what  a  wonderful  thing  is  Love!  thought  I 
to  myself:  how  it  sharpens  the  wits,  and  how  futile  it  is  in 
expedients  !  I  perceived  at  a  glance  how  ingeniously  my 
charmer  had  contrived  everything  for  our  interview,  and 
for  a  continuance  of  it  without  the  fear  of  interruption. 
She  saw,  but  took  no  notice  of  me  until  the  storm  below 
had  ceased  ;  and  then,  when  everything  had  relapsed  into 
silence,  she  came  towards  me,  and,  as  the  reader  may  well 
suppose,  I  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant.  Ye,  who  know 
what  love  is,  may,  perhaps,  conceive  our  raptures,  for  they 
are  not  to  be  expressed.  To  use  the  idea  of  one  of  our 
poets,  "  The  waters  of  our  existence,  although  springing 
from  distant  sources,  met,  and  became  united  into  one  im- 
petuous torrent,  which  rolled  on,  heedless  of  the  destruction 
it  might  occasion  in  its  maddening  course." 

(  The  Adventures  of  Hadji  Baba  of  Ispahan,  London, 


162     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


LOVE  AND  DECORUM 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

wild  girl  ran  out  of  the  room,  delighted,  as  a 
mountaineer  of  her  description  was  likely  to  be, 
with  the  thought  of  having  done  as  she  would  desire  to  be 
done  by,  in  her  benevolent  exertions  to  bring  two  lovers  to- 
gether, when  on  the  eve  of  inevitable  separation. 

In  this  self-approving  disposition,  Annette  sped  up  a 
narrow  turnpike  stair  to  a  closet,  or  dressing-room,  where 
her  young  mistress  was  seated,  and  exclaimed,  with  open 
mouth, — "  Anne  of  Gei — I  mean  my  Lady  Baroness,  they 
are  come — they  are  come  !  " 

"  The  Philipsons  ?  "  said  Anne,  almost  breathless  as  she 
asked  the  question. 

"  Yes — no  " — answered  the  girl ;  "  that  is,  yes, — for  the 
best  of  them  is  come,  and  that  is  Arthur." 

"What  meanest  thou,  girl  ?  Is  not  Seignor  Philipson, 
the  father,  along  with  his  son  ?  " 

"  Not  he,  indeed,"  answered  Veilchen,  "  nor  did  I  ever 
think  of  asking  about  him.  He  was  no  friend  of  mine,  nor 
of  any  one  else,  save  the  old  Landamman  ;  and  well  met 
they  were  for  a  couple  of  wiseacres,  with  eternal  proverbs 
in  their  mouths  and  care  upon  their  brows." 

"  Unkind,  inconsiderate  girl,  what  hast  thou  done  ? " 
said  Anne  of  Geierstein.  "Did  I  not  warn  and  charge 
thee  to  bring  them  both  hither?  and  you  have  brought  the 
young  man  alone  to  a  place  where  we  are  nearly  in  soli- 
tude ?  What  will  he — what  can  he  think  of  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  should  I  have  done  ?  "  said  Annette,  re- 
maining firm  in  her  argument.  "  He  was  alone,  and  should 
I  have  sent  him  down  to  the  dorf  to  be  murdered  by  the 
Rhinegrave's  lanzknechts  ?  All  is  fish,  I  trow,  that  comes 
to  their  net ;  and  how  is  he  to  get  through  this  country,  so 
beset  with  wandering  soldiers,  robber  barons  (I  beg  your 
ladyship's  pardon),  and  roguish  Italians,  flocking  to  the 


Love  and  Decorum  163 

Duke  of  Burgundy's  standard  ? — Not  to  mention  the  great- 
est terror  of  all,  that  is  never  in  one  shape  or  other  absent 
from  one's  eye  or  thought." 

"  Hush,  hush,  girl !  add  not  utter  madness  to  the  excess 
of  folly ;  but  let  us  think  what  is  to  be  done.  For  our 
sake,  for  his  own,  this  unfortunate  young  man  must  leave 
this  castle  instantly." 

"  You  must  take  the  message  yourself,  then,  Anne — I  beg 
pardon,  most  noble  Baroness  ; — it  may  be  very  fit  for  a  lady 
of  high  birth  to  send  such  a  message,  which,  indeed,  I 
have  heard  the  minnesingers  tell  in  their  romances ;  but  I 
am  sure  it  is  not  a  meet  one  for  me,  or  any  frank-hearted 
Swiss  girl,  to  carry.  No  more  foolery ;  but  remember,  if 
you  were  born  Baroness  of  Arnheim,  you  have  been  bred 
and  brought  up  in  the  bosom  of  the  Swiss  hills,  and  should 
conduct  yourself  like  an  honest  and  well-meaning  damsel." 

"  And  in  what  does  your  wisdom  reprehend  my  folly, 
good  Mademoiselle  Annette  ?  "  replied  the  baroness. 

"  Ay,  marry  !  now  our  noble  blood  stirs  in  our  veins. 
But  remember,  gentle  my  lady,  that  it  was  a  bargain  be- 
tween us  when  I  left  yonder  noble  mountains,  and  the  free 
air  that  blows  over  them,  to  coop  myself  up  in  this  land 
of  prisons  and  slaves,  that  I  should  speak  my  mind  to 
you  as  freely  as  I  did  when  our  heads  lay  on  the  same 
pillow." 

"  Speak,  then,"  said  Anne,  studiously  averting  her  face  as 
she  prepared  to  listen  ;  "  but  beware  that  you  say  nothing 
which  it  is  unfit  for  me  to  hear." 

"I  will  speak  nature  and  common  sense;  and  if  your 
noble  ears  are  not  made  fit  to  hear  and  understand  these, 
the  fault  lies  in  them,  and  not  in  my  tongue.  Look  you, 
you  have  saved  this  youth  from  two  great  dangers, — one  at 
the  earth-shoot  at  Geierstein,  the  other  this  very  day,  when 
his  life  was  beset.  A  handsome  young  man  he  is,  well 
spoken,  and  well  qualified  to  gain  deservedly  a  lady's 
favour.  Before  you  saw  him,  the  Swiss  youth  were  at  least 
not  odious  to  you.  You  danced  with  them, — you  jested 
with  them,  you  were  the  general  object  of  their  admiration, 
— and,  as  you  well  know,  you  might  have  had  your  choice 
through  the  canton — Why,  I  think  it  possible  a  little  urgency 


164     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

might  have  brought  you  to  think  of  Rudolph  Donnerhugel 
as  your  mate." 

"  Never,  wench,  never !  "  exclaimed  Anne. 

"  Be  not  so  very  positive,  my  lady.  Had  he  recom- 
mended himself  to  the  uncle  in  the  first  place,  I  think,  in 
my  poor  sentiment,  he  might  at  some  lucky  moment  have 
carried  the  niece.  But  since  we  have  known  this  young 
Englishman,  it  has  been  little  less  than  contemning,  de- 
spising, and  something  like  hating,  all  the  men  whom  you 
could  endure  well  enough  before." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Anne,  "  I  will  detest  and  hate  thee 
more  than  any  of  them,  unless  you  bring  your  matters  to  an 
end." 

"  Softly,  noble  lady,  fair  and  easy  go  far.  All  this  argues 
you  love  the  young  man,  and  let  those  say  that  you  are 
wrong  who  think  there  is  anything  wonderful  in  the  matter. 
There  is  much  to  justify  you,  and  nothing  that  I  know 
against  it.  .  .  ." 

As  Annette  Veilchen  spoke,  all  the  fire  of  her  mountain- 
courage  flashed  from  her  eyes,  and  she  listened  reluctantly 
while  Anne  of  Geierstein  endeavoured  to  obliterate  the 
dangerous  impression  which  her  former  words  had  im- 
pressed on  her  simple  but  faithful  attendant. 

"  On  my  word,"  she  said — "  on  my  soul — you  do  Arthur 
Philipson  injustice — foul  injustice,  in  intimating  such  a  sus- 
picion ; — his  conduct  towards  me  has  ever  been  upright  and 
honourable — a  friend  to  a  friend — a  brother  to  a  sister — 
could  not,  in  all  he  has  done  and  said,  have  been  more 
respectful,  more  anxiously  affectionate,  more  undeviatingly 
candid.  In  our  frequent  interviews  and  intercourse  he  has 
indeed  seemed  very  kind — very  attached.  But  had  I  been 
disposed — at  times  I  may  have  been  too  much  so — to  listen 
to  him  with  endurance," — the  young  lady  here  put  her  hand 
on  her  forehead,  but  the  tears  streamed  through  her  slender 
fingers, — "  he  has  never  spoken  of  any  love — any  prefer- 
ence ;  if  he  indeed  entertains  any,  some  obstacle,  insur- 
mountable on  his  part,  has  interfered  to  prevent  him." 

"  Obstacle  ?  "  replied  the  Swiss  damsel.  "  Ay,  doubtless — 
some  childish  bashfulness — some  foolish  idea  about  your 
birth  being  so  high  above  his  own — some  dream  of  modesty 


Love  and  Decorum  165 

pushed  to  extremity,  which  considers  as  impenetrable  the 
ice  of  a  spring  frost.  This  delusion  may  be  broken  by  a 
moment's  encouragement,  and  I  will  take  the  task  on 
myself  to  spare  your  blushes,  my  dearest  Anne." 

"  No,  no  ;  for  Heaven's  sake,  no  Veilchen  !  "  answered 
the  baroness,  to  whom  Annette  had  so  long  been  a  com- 
panion and  confidant,  rather  than  a  domestic.  u  You  can- 
not anticipate  the  nature  of  the  obstacles  which  may  pre- 
vent his  thinking  on  what  you  are  so  desirous  to  pro- 
mote. .  .  ." 

Up-stairs  and  down-stairs  tripped  Annette  Veilchen,  the 
soul  of  all  that  was  going  on  in  the  only  habitable  corner  of 
the  huge  Castle  of  Arnheim.  She  was  equal  to  every  kind 
of  service,  and  therefore  popped  her  head  into  the  stable  to 
be  sure  that  William  attended  properly  to  Arthur's  horse, 
looked  into  the  kitchen  to  see  that  the  old  cook  Marthon 
roasted  the  partridges  in  due  time  (an  interference  for 
which  she  received  little  thanks),  rummaged  out  a  flask  or 
two  of  Rhine  wine  from  the  huge  Dom  Daniel l  of  a  cellar, 
and,  finally,  just  peeped  into  the  parlour  to  see  how  Arthur 
was  looking  ;  when,  having  the  satisfaction  to  see  he  had, 
in  the  best  manner  he  could,  sedulously  arranged  his  person, 
she  assured  him  that  he  should  shortly  see  her  mistress, 
who  was  rather  indisposed,  yet  could  not  refrain  from  com- 
ing down  to  see  so  valued  an  acquaintance. 

Arthur  blushed  when  she  spoke  thus,  and  seemed  so 
handsome  in  the  waiting-maid's  eye,  that  she  could  not 
help  saying  to  herself,  as  she  went  to  her  young  lady's 
room — "  Well,  if  true  love  cannot  manage  to  bring  that 
couple  together,  in  spite  of  all  the  obstacles  that  they  stand 
boggling  at,  I  will  never  believe  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  true  love  in  the  world,  let  Martin  Sprenger  say  what  he 
will,  and  swear  to  it  on  the  Gospels." 

When  she  reached  the  young  baroness's  apartment,  she 
found,  to  her  surprise,  that  instead  of  having  put  on  what 
finery  she  possessed,  that  young  lady's  choice  had  preferred 
the  same  simple  kirtle  which  she  had  worn  during  the  first 

1  [Dom-Daniel  was  the  huge  cavern  lying  "  under  the  roots  of  the 
ocean,"  in  which  evil  spirits,  enchanters,  and  other  wicked  beings  were 
confined.] 


166     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

day  that  Arthur  had  dined  at  Geierstein.  Annette  looked 
at  first  puzzled  and  doubtful,  then  suddenly  recognised  the 
good  taste  which  had  dictated  the  attire,  and  exclaimed — 
"  You  are  right — you  are  right — it  is  best  to  meet  him  as  a 
free-hearted  Swiss  maiden." 

Anne  also  smiled  as  she  replied — "  But,  at  the  same 
time,  in  the  walls  of  Arnheim,  I  must  appear  in  some  re- 
spect as  the  daughter  of  my  father. — Here,  girl,  aid  me  to 
put  this  gem  upon  the  riband  which  binds  my  hair." 

It  was  an  aigrette,  or  plume,  composed  of  two  feathers 
of  a  vulture,  fastened  together  by  an  opal,  which  changed 
to  the  changing  light  with  a  variability  which  enchanted 
the  Swiss  damsel,  who  had  never  seen  anything  resembling 
it  in  her  life. 

I  will  not  pretend  to  describe  the  marked  embarrassment 
with  which  Arthur  Philipson  and  Anne  of  Geierstein  met ; 
neither  lifted  their  eyes,  neither  spoke  intelligibly,  as  they 
greeted  each  other,  and  the  maiden  herself  did  not  blush 
more  deeply  than  her  modest  visitor;  while  the  good-hu- 
moured Swiss  girl,  whose  ideas  of  love  partook  of  the  free- 
dom of  a  more  Arcadian  country  and  its  customs,  looked 
on  with  eyebrows  a  little  arched,  much  in  wonder,  and  a 
little  in  contempt,  at  a  couple  who,  as  she  might  think, 
acted  with  such  unnatural  and  constrained  reserve.  Deep 
was  the  reverence  and  the  blush  with  which  Arthur  offered 
his  hand  to  the  young  lady,  and  her  acceptance  of  the 
courtesy  had  the  same  character  of  extreme  bashfulness, 
agitation,  and  embarrassment.  In  short,  though  little  or 
nothing  intelligible  passed  between  this  very  handsome  and 
interesting  couple,  the  interview  itself  did  not  on  that  ac- 
count lose  any  interest.  Arthur  handed  the  maiden,  as  was 
the  duty  of  a  gallant  of  the  day,  into  the  next  room,  where 
their  repast  was  prepared ;  and  Annette,  who  watched  with 
singular  attention  everything  which  occurred,  felt  with  as- 
tonishment that  the  forms  and  ceremonies  of  the  higher 
orders  of  society  had  such  an  influence,  even,  over  her 
free-born  mind,  as  the  rites  of  the  Druids  over  that  of  the 
Roman  general,  when  he  said, 

I  scorn  them,  yet  they  awe  me. 


Love  and  Decorum  167 

u  What  can  have  changed  them  ?  "  said  Annette  ;  "  when 
at  Geierstein,  they  looked  but  like  another  girl  and  bachelor, 
only  that  Anne  is  so  very  handsome  ;  but  now  they  move 
in  time  and  manner  as  if  they  were  leading  a  stately  pavin, 
and  behave  to  each  other  with  as  much  formal  respect  as 
if  he  were  Landamman  of  the  Unterwalden,  and  she  the 
first  Lady  of  Berne.  'Tis  all  very  fine,  doubtless,  but  it  is 
not  the  way  that  Martin  Sprenger  makes  love." 

Apparently  the  circumstances  in  which  each  of  the  young 
people  was  placed,  recalled  to  them  the  habits  of  lofty  and 
somewhat  formal  courtesy  to  which  they  might  have  been 
accustomed  in  former  days ;  and  while  the  baroness  felt  it 
necessary  to  observe  the  strictest  decorum,  in  order  to 
qualify  the  reception  of  Arthur  into  the  interior  of  her  re- 
treat, he,  on  the  other  hand,  endeavoured  to  show,  by  the 
profoundness  of  his  respect,  that  he  was  incapable  of  mis- 
using the  kindness  with  which  he  had  been  treated.  They 
placed  themselves  at  table,  scrupulously  observing  the  dis- 
tance which  might  become  a  "  virtuous  gentleman  and 
maid."  The  youth  William  did  the  service  of  the  enter- 
tainment with  deftness  and  courtesy,  as  one  well  accus- 
tomed to  such  duty ;  and  Annette,  placing  herself  between 
them,  and  endeavouring,  as  closely  as  she  could,  to  adhere 
to  the  ceremonies  which  she  saw  them  observe,  made  prac- 
tice of  the  civilities  which  were  expected  from  the  attend- 
ant of  a  baroness.  .  .  . 

Anne  of  Geierstein  seemed  rather  glad  to  lead  away  the 
conversation  from  the  turn  which  her  wayward  maiden  had 
given  to  it,  and  to  turn  it  on  more  indifferent  subjects, 
though  these  were  still  personal  to  herself. 

"  Seignor  Arthur,"  she  said,  "  thinks,  perhaps,  he  has 
some  room  to  nourish  some  such  strange  suspicion  as 
your  heedless  folly  expresses,  and  some  fools  believe, 
both  in  Germany  and  Switzerland.  Confess,  Seignor 
Arthur,  you  thought  strangely  of  me  when  I  passed  your 
guard  upon  the  bridge  of  Graffs-lust,  on  the  night  last 
past." 

The  recollection  of  the  circumstances  which  had  so 
greatly  surprised  him  at  the  time,  so  startled  Arthur,  that  it 
was  with  some  difficulty  he  commanded  himself,  so  as  to 


168     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

attempt  an  answer  at  all ;  and  what  he  did  say  on  the  occa- 
sion was  broken  and  unconnected. 

"  You  were  the  preserver  of  my  life,"  said  the  youth — 
"  the  restorer  of  my  liberty." 

"Ask  me  not  the  reason  of  my  silence.  I  was  then 
acting  under  the  agency  of  others,  not  under  mine  own. 
Your  escape  was  effected  in  order  to  establish  a  communi- 
cation betwixt  the  Swiss  without  the  fortress  and  the  soldiers 
within.  After  the  alarm  at  LaFerette,  I  learned  from  Sigis- 
mund  Biederman  that  a  party  of  banditti  were  pursuing 
your  father  and  you,  with  a  view  to  pillage  and  robbery. 
My  father  had  furnished  me  with  the  means  of  changing 
Anne  of  Geierstein  into  a  German  maiden  of  quality.  I 
set  out  instantly,  and  glad  I  am  to  have  given  you  a  hint 
which  might  free  you  from  danger." 

"  But  my  father  ?  "  said  Arthur. 

"  I  have  every  reason  to  hope  he  is  well  and  safe,"  an- 
swered the  young  lady.  "  More  than  I  were  eager  to  pro- 
tect both  you  and  him — poor  Sigismund  amongst  the  first. 
— And  now,  my  friend,  these  mysteries  explained,  it  is  time 
we  part,  and  forever." 

"  Part ! — and  forever  !  "  repeated  the  youth,  in  a  voice 
like  a  dying  echo. 

"  It  is  our  fate,"  said  the  maiden.  "  I  appeal  to  you  if 
it  is  not  your  duty — I  tell  you  it  is  mine.  You  will  depart 
with  early  dawn  to  Strassburg — and — and — we  never  meet 
again." 

With  an  ardour  of  passion  which  he  could  not  repress, 
Arthur  Philipson  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  maiden, 
whose  faltering  tone  had  clearly  expressed  that  she  felt 
deeply  in  uttering  the  words.  She  looked  round  for  An- 
nette, but  Annette  had  disappeared  at  this  most  critical 
moment;  and  her  mistress  for  a  second  or  two  was  not 
perhaps  sorry  for  her  absence. 

"  Rise,"  she  said,  "  Arthur — rise.  You  must  not 
give  way  to  feelings  that  might  be  fatal  to  yourself  and 
me." 

"  Hear  me,  lady,  before  I  bid  you  adieu,  and  forever — 
the  word  of  a  criminal  is  heard,  though  he  plead  the  worst 
cause — I  am  a  belted  knight,  the  son  and  heir  of  an  Earl, 


Barbxrelli  ( School  of  Giorgione) . 


GARDEN    OF    LOVE 


Love  and  Decorum  169 

whose  name  has  been  spread  throughout  England  and 
France,  and  wherever  valour  has  had  fame." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  she  faintly,  "  I  have  but  too  long  sus- 
pected what  you  now  tell  me — Rise,  I  pray  you,  rise." 

"  Never  till  you  hear  me,"  said  the  youth,  seizing  one 
of  her  hands,  which  trembled,  but  hardly  could  be  said  to 
struggle  in  his  grasp. — "  Hear  me,"  he  said,  with  the  en- 
thusiasm of  first  love,  when  the  obstacles  of  bashfulness 
and  diffidence  are  surmounted — "  My  father  and  I  are — I 
acknowledge  it — bound  on  a  most  hazardous  and  doubtful 
expedition.  You  will  very  soon  learn  its  issue  for  good  or 
bad.  If  it  succeed,  you  shall  hear  of  me  in  my  own  char- 
acter.— If  I  fall,  I  must — I  will — I  do  claim  a  tear  from 
Anne  of  Geierstein.  If  I  escape,  I  have  yet  a  horse,  a 
lance,  and  a  sword  ;  and  you  shall  hear  nobly  of  him  whom 
you  have  thrice  protected  from  imminent  danger." 

"  Arise — arise," — repeated  the  maiden,  whose  tears  began 
to  flow  fast,  as,  struggling  to  raise  her  lover,  they  fell  thick 
upon  his  head  and  face.  "  I  have  heard  enough — to  listen 
to  more  were  indeed  madness,  both  for  you  and  myself." 

"  Yet  one  single  word,"  added  the  youth  ;  "  while  Arthur 
has  a  heart,  it  beats  for  you — while  Arthur  can  wield  an 
arm,  it  strikes  for  you,  and  in  your  cause." 

{Anne  of  Geierstein,  Edinburgh,  1829.) 


170     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


A  TRAGIC  MEETING 

HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

A  T  last  the  General  found  this  silent  parlour  in  the 
convent  by  the  sea.  Love  seldom  attains  to  solem- 
nity ;  but  faithful  love  in  the  bosom  of  God,  is  there  not 
something  solemn  there,  and  more  indeed  than  a  man  could 
expect  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  with  the  manners  that 
accompany  it  ?  The  infinite  grandeurs  of  this  site  were 
fitted  to  impress  the  soul  of  the  General,  for  he  was 
sufficiently  elevated  of  nature  to  forget  politics,  honours, 
Spain,  and  the  world  of  Paris,  and  to  rise  to  the  height  of 
great  development.  Moreover,  what  could  be  more  truly 
tragic  ?  How  much  sentiment  in  the  situation  of  two 
lovers  re-united  on  a  granite  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  sea, 
but  separated  by  an  idea,  by  an  impassable  barrier.  See,  the 
man  is  saying  to  himself:  "Can  I  triumph  over  God  in 
this  heart  ?  "  A  light  sound  made  him  tremble,  the  brown 
curtain  was  drawn  aside ;  then  he  saw  in  the  light  a  woman 
standing,  but  her  face  was  hidden  by  the  long  veil  plaited 
upon  her  head :  according  to  the  rule  of  the  house  she  was 
dressed  in  that  robe  whose  colour  has  become  proverbial. 
The  General  could  not  see  the  nun's  bare  feet  which  would 
have  attested  terrible  emaciation ;  yet,  through  the  many 
folds  of  the  coarse  gown  that  covered  her  and  allowed  none 
of  this  woman  to  be  revealed,  he  divined  that  the  tears,  the 
prayers,  the  passion,  and  the  solitary  life  had  already  wasted 
her  away. 

The  icy  hand  of  a  woman,  doubtless  that  of  the  Mother- 
Superior,  still  held  the  curtain ;  and  the  General,  having 
scrutinized  this  necessary  witness  to  the  interview,  met  the 
dark  and  penetrating  glance  of  an  old  nun,  almost  a  hun- 
dred years  old,  whose  clear  and  youthful  eye  contradicted 
the  numerous  wrinkles  with  which  her  pale  face  was  fur- 
rowed. 

"  Madame  la  Duchesse,"  he  asked  the  nun  with  bowed 


A    Tragic   Meeting  171 

head,  in  a  voice  full  of  emotion,  "  does  your  companion 
understand  French  ? " 

"There  is  no  duchess  here,"  replied  the  nun.  "You 
stand  before  Sister  Therese.  My  companion,  as  you  call 
her,  is  my  Mother  in  God,  my  superior  here  below." 

These  words,  so  humbly  pronounced  by  a  voice  that 
formerly  harmonized  with  luxury  and  elegance  in  the  midst 
of  which  this  woman  had  lived  queen  of  Parisian  society, 
and  from  lips  whose  speech  was  once  so  light  and  so  mock- 
ing, struck  the  General  like  a  thunder-bolt. 

"  My  holy  Mother  speaks  nothing  but  Latin  and  Spanish," 
she  added. 

"  I  know  neither  of  these,  my  dear  Antoinette,  make  my 
excuses  to  her." 

Hearing  her  name  gently  spoken  by  a  man  who  was 
formerly  so  cruel  to  her,  the  nun  felt  great  emotion  that  be- 
trayed itself  in  the  slight  trembling  of  her  veil  upon  which 
the  full  light  was  now  falling. 

"  My  brother,"  said  she,  carrying  her  sleeve  beneath  her 
veil,  probably  to  wipe  her  eyes,  "  I  am  called  Sister 
Therese." 

Then  she  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  Mother-Superior 
and  said  in  Spanish  the  following  words  which  the  General 
heard  distinctly ;  he  knew  enough  to  understand,  and  per- 
haps enough  to  speak. 

"  My  dear  Mother,  this  gentleman  presents  his  respects 
to  you,  and  begs  you  will  excuse  his  not  doing  this  for  him- 
self, but  he  does  not  understand  either  of  the  two  languages 
that  you  speak." 

The  old  woman  bowed  her  head  slightly,  and  an  ex- 
pression of  angelic  sweetness  came  into  her  face  heightened, 
notwithstanding,  by  the  feelings  of  her  power  and  dignity. 

"  Do  you  know  this  gentleman  ? "  she  asked,  with  a 
penetrating  glance. 

"  Yes,  Mother." 

"  Retire  to  your  cell,  my  daughter,"  said  the  Mother- 
Superior  in  an  imperious  tone. 

The  General  hastily  retired  behind  the  curtain,  so  that 
the  terrible  emotion  of  his  face  could  not  be  seen  ;  and 
from  the  shadow  he  seemed  to  see  the  piercing  eyes  of  the 


172     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Mother-Superior.  This  woman  who  controlled  the  fragile 
and  transitory  happiness  he  had  secured  at  so  much  cost 
frightened  him  and  he  trembled  ;  he,  whom  a  triple  row  of 
cannon  had  never  alarmed.  The  Duchess  walked  to  the 
door,  but  she  turned  around :  "  Mother,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  of  horrible  calmness,  "  this  Frenchman  is  one  of  my 
brothers." 

"  Remain  then,  my  daughter,"  said  the  old  woman,  after 
a  pause. 

This  admirable  Jesuitism  revealed  such  great  love  and  re- 
gret that  a  man  less  strongly  organized  than  the  General 
would  have  defeated  himself  in  showing  his  intense  pleasure 
in  the  midst  of  this  immense  danger  which  threatened  him. 
Of  what  value  indeed  were  words,  glances  and  gestures  in 
a  scene  where  love  had  to  escape  the  eyes  of  a  lynx  and 
the  claws  of  a  tiger  ?  Sister  Therese  returned. 

"You  see,  my  brother,  what  I  have  dared  do  that  I  might 
hold  you  here  for  a  moment  for  the  sake  of  your  salvation 
and  the  prayers  for  you  that  my  soul  addresses  each  day  to 
heaven.  I  now  commit  a  mortal  sin.  I  have  lied.  How 
many  days  of  penance  will  it  cost  me  to  efface  this  lie  !  but 
it  will  be  to  suffer  for  you.  You  do  not  know,  my  brother, 
what  happiness  is  a  heavenly  love,  the  power  of  avowing 
sentiments  that  have  been  purified  by  religion  and  trans- 
ported unto  the  highest  regions,  and  how  it  is  permitted  to 
us  to  feel  with  the  soul  alone.  If  the  doctrines,  if  the 
spirit  of  the  saint  to  whom  we  owe  this  retreat,  had  not  lifted 
me  far  above  terrestrial  miseries  and  borne  me  far  below  the 
sphere  in  which  she  dwells,  but  certainly  far  above  the 
world,  I  could  not  have  seen  you  again.  But  I  can  see  you 
and  hear  you  speak,  and  remain  calm." 

"  Ah,  Antoinette,"  cried  the  General,  interrupting  these 
words,  "oh,  do  what  T  wish,  you  who  I  now  love  with  intox- 
ication, desperately,  as  you  have  wished  to  be  loved  by  me." 

"  Do  not  call  me  Antoinette,  I  entreat  you.  The  mem- 
ory of  the  past  is  bad  for  me.  Do  not  see  here  other  than 
Sister  Therese,  a  creature  trusting  to  divine  mercy.  And," 
she  added  after  a  pause,  "  control  yourself  my  brother. 
Our  Mother  would  separate  us  unmercifully  if  your  face 
betrayed  worldly  passions,  or  if  tears  fell  from  your  eyes." 


A    Tragic   Meeting  173 

The  General  bowed  his  head  as  if  to  collect  himself. 
When  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  grille  he  perceived  behind 
the  bars  the  face  of  the  nun,  pale  and  emaciated  but  still 
passionate.  Her  complexion  where  once  bloomed  all  the 
enchantment  of  youth,  where  the  happy  opposition  of  a 
heavy  white  contrasted  with  the  colours  of  a  Bengal  rose, 
took  now  the  warm  tone  of  a  cup  of  porcelain  within 
which  a  faint  light  is  enclosed.  The  beautiful  hair  of 
which  this  woman  was  so  proud,  had  been  shorn.  A 
bandeau  encompassed  her  brow  and  framed  her  face.  Her 
eyes  surrounded  with  dark  circles  due  to  the  austerities  of 
that  life,  momentarily  darted  out  feverish  light,  for  their 
habitual  calm  was  merely  a  veil.  Finally,  of  this  woman 
nothing  but  the  soul  remained. 

"  Ah,  you  will  leave  this  tomb,  you  who  have  become  my 
entire  life.  You  belonged  to  me,  and  were  not  free  to  give 
yourself  even  to  God.  Have  you  not  promised  to  sacrifice 
everything  to  the  least  of  my  commands  ?  Now  you  will 
find  me  perhaps  worthy  of  that  promise,  when  you  know 
what  I  have  done  for  you.  I  have  searched  for  you 
throughout  the  world.  For  five  years  you  have  been  every 
moment  in  my  thoughts,  the  occupation  of  my  life.  My 
friends,  my  most  powerful  friends,  you  know  this,  have 
helped  me  with  all  their  might  to  search  the  convents  of 
France,  Italy,  Spain,  Sicily,  and  America.  My  love  has 
burned  more  deeply  at  every  vain  attempt ;  I  have  often 
made  long  voyages  on  a  false  hope,  I  have  spent  my  life 
and  the  strongest  beatings  of  my  heart  amongst  the  black 
walls  of  many  cloisters.  I  will  not  speak  to  you  of  a 
fidelity  without  limit, — what  is  it  ?  a  mere  nothing  in 
comparison  to  the  infinite  vows  of  my  love.  If  your  re- 
morse has  really  been  true,  you  will  not  hesitate  to  follow 
me  to-day." 

"You  forget  that  I  am  not  free." 

"The  duke  is  dead,"  he  replied  quickly. 

Sister  Therese  blushed. 

"  May  heaven  receive  him,"  she  said  in  quick  emotion. 
"  He  was  generous  to  me.  But  I  do  not  speak  of  those 
ties,  one  of  my  sins  was  the  willingness  to  break  them  all 
without  a  scruple  for  you." 


174     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

"  You  speak  of  your  vows,"  cried  the  General,  knitting 
his  brows.  "  I  did  not  believe  that  anything  would  weigh 
in  your  heart  but  your  love.  But  fear  not,  Antoinette,  I 
will  obtain  a  brief  from  Saint  Peter's  which  will  release 
you  from  your  vow.  I  will  certainly  go  to  Rome,  I  will 
implore  all  the  powers  on  the  earth ;  if  God  himself  could 
descend  I  would " 

"  Do  not  blaspheme." 

"  Are  you  then  afraid  of  God  ?  Ah  !  I  should  like  much 
better  to  hear  that  you  will  leap  these  walls  for  me  -,  that 
even  this  evening  you  will  throw  yourself  into  a  boat  at  the 
foot  of  the  rocks.  We  will  go  and  be  happy,  I  do  not 
care  where,  to  the  end  of  the  world  !  And,  at  my  side  you 
shall  return  to  life  and  health  beneath  the  wings  of  Love." 

"  Do  not  talk  like  this,"  replied  Sister  Therese,  "  you 
forget  what  you  have  become  to  me.  I  love  you  better 
than  I  have  ever  loved  you.  I  pray  to  God  every  day  for 
you,  but  I  see  you  no  longer  with  my  earthly  eyes.  If  you 
could  know,  Armand,  the  happiness  of  being  able  to  give 
myself  up  without  shame  to  a  pure  friendship  protected  by 
God  !  You  do  not  know  how  happy  I  am  to  call  the  bene- 
dictions of  heaven  upon  you.  I  never  pray  for  myself: 
God  may  do  with  me  as  he  pleases.  But  regarding  you,  I 
would  wish,  at  the  price  of  my  own  eternal  life,  to  have 
the  knowledge  that  you  are  happy  in  this  world  and  that 
you  shall  be  happy  in  the  other  for  all  eternity.  My 
eternal  life  is  all  now  that  misfortune  has  left  me  to  give 
you.  Now,  I  am  become  old  through  my  tears,  I  am  no 
longer  young,  nor  beautiful ;  moreover,  you  would  despise 
a  nun  transformed  into  a  woman,  for  no  sentiment,  not 
even  maternal  love  could  absolve  her.  What  can  you  say 
to  me  that  will  balance  the  countless  reflections  that  have 
accumulated  in  my  heart,  for  five  years,  and  that  have 
changed  it,  hallowed  it,  withered  it  ?  I  ought  to  have  given 
a  less  sad  one  to  God  !  " 

"What  I  will  say,  my  dear  Antoinette,  what  I  will  say 
is  that  I  love  you :  that  affection,  love,  true  love,  the  hap- 
piness of  living  as  one  heart,  entirely  our  own,  and  with- 
out reserve,  is  so  rare  and  so  difficult  to  meet  with,  that  I 
have  doubted  you,  that  I  have  submitted  you  to  a  cruel 


A    Tragic   Meeting  175 

test;  but  to-day,  I  love  you  with  all  the  strength  of  my 
soul :  if  you  will  follow  me  into  retreat,  I  will  listen  to  no 
other  voice  and  look  upon  no  other  face  but  yours." 

"  Silence,  Armand,  you  shorten  the  one  instant  permitted 
for  us  to  see  each  other  here  below." 

"  Antoinette  do  you  wish  to  follow  me  ?  " 

"  But  I  never  leave  you.  I  live  in  your  heart,  but  dif- 
ferently to  all  thoughts  of  worldly  pleasure,  vanity,  and  sel- 
fish joy  j  I  live  here  for  you,  pale  and  withered,  in  the 
bosom  of  God.  If  he  is  just,  you  will  be  happy." 

"  All  those  are  but  phrases  !  And  what  if  I  want  you 
pale  and  withered  ?  And  what  if  I  shall  never  be  happy 
unless  I  possess  you  ?  You  can  still  remember  duties  in 
the  presence  of  your  lover  ?  Will  he  never  stand  above 
all  else  in  your  heart  ?  Formerly,  you  preferred  society, 
yourself, — I  don't  know  what  else — to  him ;  now  it  is  God, 
and  my  salvation  !  In  the  heart  of  Sister  Therese,  I  still 
recognize  the  Duchess  ignorant  of  the  pleasures  of  love 
and  always  insensible  beneath  the  semblance  of  sympathy. 
You  do  not  love  me,  you  never  have  loved  me  !  " 

"  Oh,  my  brother " 

"  You  do  not  wish  to  leave  this  tomb,  you  love  my  soul, 
you  say  ?  Very  well  !  You  shall  lose  this  soul  forever, 
for  I  will  kill  myself." 

"  Mother,"  cried  Sister  Therese  in  Spanish,  "  I  have 
lied  to  you,  this  man  is  my  lover  ! " 

The  curtain  fell  instantly.  The  General,  remaining 
stunned,  presently  heard  the  doors  within  shut  violently. 

"  Ah  !  she  loves  me  still,"  he  cried  understanding  the 
sublime  meaning  in  the  cry  of  the  nun.  "  I  must  take  her 
away  from  here  ! 

(La  Duchesse  de  Langeais,  Paris, 


176     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

early  childhood  I  had  felt  a  vocation  for  the 
priesthood,  and  so  all  my  studies  were  directed  to  that 
end,  and  up  to  my  twenty-fourth  year  my  life  had  been 
nothing  but  a  long  novitiate.  On  completing  my  theolog- 
ical course,  I  passed  through  the  minor  orders  in  succes- 
sion, and  notwithstanding  my  youth,  my  superiors  consid- 
ered me  worthy  of  passing  the  last  solemn  degree.  A  day 
in  Easter  week  was  appointed  for  my  ordination. 

I  had  never  gone  out  into  the  world ;  for  me  the  world 
was  enclosed  within  the  college  and  the  seminary.  I  knew 
vaguely  that  there  was  something  called  woman,  but  my 
thoughts  never  dwelt  upon  that :  I  was  perfectly  innocent, 
I  saw  my  old  and  infirm  mother  only  twice  a  year.  That 
was  my  only  connexion  with  the  outside  world. 

I  regretted  nothing.  I  felt  not  the  least  hesitation  over 
this  irrevocable  engagement :  I  was  full  of  joy  and  im- 
patience— no  lover  ever  counted  the  hours  with  more  fever- 
ish ardour ;  I  could  not  sleep  without  dreaming  that  I  was 
saying  mass ;  I  could  see  nothing  more  beautiful  than  to  be 
a  priest ;  I  would  have  refused  to  be  a  king  or  a  poet.  My 
ambition  could  conceive  of  nothing  higher  than  that. 

The  great  day  having  arrived,  I  walked  to  the  church 
with  a  step  so  light  that  I  seemed  to  be  upborne  in  the  air, 
or  that  I  had  wings  on  my  shoulders.  I  believed  myself  to 
be  an  angel  and  wondered  at  the  sombre  and  preoccupied 
faces  of  my  companions,  for  there  were  several  of  us.  I 
had  spent  the  night  in  prayer,  and  was  in  a  state  bordering 
on  ecstasy.  The  bishop,  a  venerable  old  man,  seemed  to 
me  God  the  Father  leaning  over  his  eternity,  and  I  saw 
Heaven  through  the  dome  of  the  temple. 

You  are  familiar  with  the  details :  the  benediction,  the 
communion  in  two  kinds,  the  anointing  of  the  palms  of 
the  hands  with  the  oil  of  catechumens,  and  finally  the  holy 


Love  at   First  Sight  177 

sacrifice  offered  in  concert  with  the  bishop.  I  will  not 
dwell  upon  all  that.  Oh  !  how  right  Job  was,  and  how 
imprudent  is  he  who  does  not  make  a  covenant  with  his 
eyes  !  I  chanced  to  raise  my  head,  which  until  then  I  had 
kept  bowed,  and  saw  in  front  of  me,  so  close  that  it  seemed 
as  if  I  could  have  touched  her, — although  in  reality  she 
was  a  considerable  distance  away  and  outside  the  railing — a 
young  woman  of  rare  beauty,  and  robed  with  royal  mag- 
nificence. It  seemed  as  if  scales  were  falling  from  my 
eyes.  I  experienced  the  sensation  of  a  blind  man  suddenly 
recovering  his  sight.  The  bishop,  just  now  so  radiant, 
suddenly  faded  away,  the  tapers  paled  upon  their  golden 
candlesticks  like  stars  in  the  morning,  and  complete  dark- 
ness filled  the  whole  church.  The  charming  creature  stood 
out  against  that  background  of  shadow  like  an  angelic  reve- 
lation ;  she  seemed  illuminated  by  herself,  and  to  be  giving 
forth  light  rather  than  receiving  it. 

I  lowered  my  eyelids,  firmly  resolved  not  to  raise  them 
again,  so  as  to  withdraw  from  the  influence  of  external  ob- 
jects, for  distraction  was  taking  possession  of  me  more  and 
more,  and  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  was  doing. 

A  moment  later,  I  opened  my  eyes  again,  for  through 
my  lashes  I  saw  her  glittering  with  prismatic  hues,  and  en- 
veloped in  a  purple  penumbra  such  as  one  sees  when  look- 
ing at  the  sun. 

Oh,  how  lovely  she  was  !  When,  pursuing  beauty  in 
the  heavens,  the  greatest  painters  bring  back  to  earth  the 
divine  likeness  of  the  Madonna,  they  cannot  even  approach 
that  fabulous  reality.  Neither  the  poet's  verses  nor  the 
artist's  palette  could  convey  any  idea  of  her.  She  was 
rather  tall,  with  the  figure  and  bearing  of  a  goddess ;  her 
hair,  of  a  soft  blond,  was  parted  in  the  middle  and  flowed 
back  over  her  temples  like  two  rivers  of  gold  ;  one  would 
have  called  her  a  queen  with  her  diadem ;  her  brow,  of  a 
bluish-white  and  transparent  fairness,  extended  broad  and 
serene  above  the  arches  of  two  almost  brown  eyebrows, — a 
peculiarity  that  further  increased  the  effect  of  sea-green 
eyes  of  insupportable  vivacity  and  brilliance.  What  eyes  ! 
They  decided  a  man's  destiny  with  one  flash  ;  they  pos- 
sessed a  life,  a  limpidity,  an  ardour,  a  burning  humidity  that 


178     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

I  have  never  seen  in  human  eyes  j  they  darted  rays  like  ar- 
rows that  I  could  distinctly  see  reach  my  heart.  I  know 
not  if  the  flame  that  illumined  them  came  from  Heaven  or 
from  Hell,  but  assuredly  it  came  from  one  or  other,  and 
perhaps  both ;  certainly  she  never  sprang  from  the  flank  of 
Eve,  the  mother  of  all.  Teeth  of  the  loveliest  pearl 
gleamed  in  her  crimson  smile,  and  every  movement  of  her 
lips  dug  little  dimples  in  the  rosy  satin  of  her  adorable 
cheeks.  As  for  her  nose,  it  was  quite  regal  in  its  delicacy 
and  pride,  and  revealed  the  most  noble  origin.  Agate 
gleams  played  over  the  smooth  lustrous  skin  of  her  half 
bare  shoulders,  and  strings  of  large  fair  pearls — of  a  tint 
almost  comparable  to  her  neck — descended  to  her  breast. 
From  time  to  time  she  raised  her  head  with  the  undulating 
grace  of  a  serpent,  or  a  peacock  when  it  puffs  out  its  breast, 
and  imparted  a  slight  tremor  to  the  high  open-work  ruff 
that  surrounded  it  like  a  silver  trellis-work. 

She  wore  a  robe  of  ruby  velvet,  and  her  wide  sleeves 
lined  with  ermine  fell  away  from  patrician  hands  of  infinite 
delicacy  with  fingers  long  and  tapering  and  of  such  ideal 
transparency  that,  like  Aurora's,  they  let  the  light  shine 
through  them. 

All  these  details  are  still  as  clear  as  if  they  dated  from 
yesterday,  for,  although  I  was  greatly  disturbed,  nothing 
escaped  me  ;  the  faintest  shadow,  the  little  dark  speck  at 
the  point  of  the  chin,  the  imperceptible  tuft  at  the  corners 
of  the  lips,  the  velvety  down  upon  the  brow,  the  quivering 
shadows  of  the  lashes  upon  the  cheeks,  I  noticed  every- 
thing with  astonishing  lucidity. 

As  I  looked  at  her,  I  felt  opening  within  me  gates  that 
hitherto  had  been  closed  ;  obstructed  vents  opened  in  all  my 
senses  and  revealed  unknown  vistas;  life  appeared  to  me 
under  quite  another  aspect.  I  had  just  been  born  to  a  new 
order  of  ideas.  Frightful  anguish  tore  at  my  heart ;  every 
minute  that  passed  seemed  both  a  second  and  a  century. 
Meanwhile  the  ceremony  proceeded,  and  I  was  transported 
far  away  from  that  world  of  which  my  newly-born  desires 
were  furiously  besieging  the  entrance.  Nevertheless  I 
answered  Yes  when  I  wanted  to  say  No  !  and  while  all 
within  me  was  revolting  and  protesting  against  the  violence 


Love  at  First   Sight  179 

my  tongue  was  doing  to  my  soul  :  some  occult  power 
dragged  the  words  from  my  throat  in  spite  of  myself. 
Thus  it  is,  perhaps,  that  so  many  maidens  walk  to  the  altar 
with  the  firm  resolve  to  refuse  in  a  startling  manner  the 
husband  imposed  upon  them,  and  that  not  one  ever  carries 
out  her  intention.  Thus  it  is,  doubtless,  that  so  many  poor 
novices  take  the  veil,  although  fully  determined  to  tear  it  to 
pieces  when  the  moment  arrives  for  them  to  pronounce 
their  vows. 

The  gaze  of  the  fair  unknown  changed  its  expression  as 
the  ceremony  proceeded.  From  tender  and  caressing,  as 
it  had  been  at  first,  it  gradually  became  disdainful  and  angry, 
as  though  at  not  having  been  understood. 

I  made  an  effort  sufficient  to  have  removed  a  mountain, 
I  strove  to  cry  out  that  I  did  not  want  to  be  a  priest,  but  I 
could  not  succeed ;  my  tongue  clove  to  my  palate,  and  I 
found  it  impossible  to  translate  my  will  by  the  slightest 
negative  motion.  Fully  awake,  I  was  in  a  condition  simi- 
lar to  that  of  nightmare,  when  you  want  to  utter  the  word 
on  which  life  depends,  without  being  able  to  do  so. 

She  seemed  aware  of  the  martyrdom  I  was  suffering,  and, 
as  though  to  encourage  me,  she  gave  me  a  glance  full  of 
divine  promises.  Her  eyes  were  a  poem  of  which  every 
look  formed  a  song. 

She  said  :  "  If  thou  wilt  be  mine,  I  will  make  thee 
happier  than  God  himself  in  his  Paradise  :  the  angels 
shall  be  jealous  of  thee.  Rend  that  funeral  shroud  in 
which  thou  art  about  to  wrap  thyself.  I  am  Beauty,  I  am 
Youth,  I  am  Life  ;  come  to  me,  we  will  be  Love.  What 
could  Jehovah  offer  thee  as  compensation  ?  Our  existence 
will  flow  like  a  river  and  will  be  nothing  but  one  eternal 
kiss. 

"  Throw  the  wine  out  of  that  chalice  and  thou  art  free.  I 
will  lead  thee  to  the  unknown  isles ;  thou  shalt  sleep  in 
my  bosom  in  a  bed  of  massive  gold  under  a  silver  pavilion, 
for  I  love  thee  and  would  take  thee  away  from  thy  God, 
before  whom  so  many  noble  hearts  pour  out  floods  of  love 
that  can  never  reach  him." 

I  seemed  to  hear  these  words  in  a  rhythm  of  infinite 
sweetness,  for  her  glance  was  almost  sonorous,  and  the 


180     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

words  that  her  eyes  sent  to  me  resounded  in  the  depths  of  my 
heart  as  if  invisible  lips  had  breathed  them  into  my  soul.  I 
felt  willing  to  renounce  God  and  yet  I  mechanically  went 
through  all  the  formalities  of  the  ceremony.  The  beautiful 
woman  gave  me  another  look,  so  imploring  and  despairing 
that  sharp  blades  seemed  to  pierce  my  heart,  and  I  felt  my 
breast  transfixed  by  more  swords  than  those  of  Our  Lady 
of  Sorrows. 

It  was  finished :  I  was  a  priest. 

Human  face  never  painted  so  poignant  an  agony.  The 
maiden  who  sees  her  promised  husband  suddenly  fall  dead 
by  her  side,  the  mother  beside  her  child's  empty  cradle, 
Eve  seated  at  the  threshold  of  the  gate  of  Paradise,  the 
miser  who  finds  a  stone  in  place  of  his  stolen  hoard,  the 
poet  who  lets  fall  into  the  fire  the  sole  manuscript  of  his 
finest  work,  could  not  wear  an  expression  so  despairing  and 
inconsolable.  The  blood  entirely  deserted  her  charming 
face  which  became  as  white  as  marble ;  her  beautiful  arms 
fell  lifelessly  to  her  side  as  though  their  muscles  had  sud- 
denly relaxed ;  and  she  leant  against  a  pillar,  for  her  limbs 
bent  and  failed  her.  As  for  myself,  I  staggered  towards  the 
door  of  the  church,  livid,  my  brow  streaming  with  sweat 
bloodier  than  that  of  Calvary  !  I  was  suffocating ;  the 
vaults  were  weighing  on  my  shoulders,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  my  head  alone  was  sustaining  the  entire  weight  of 
the  dome. 

As  I  was  about  to  cross  the  threshold,  a  hand  suddenly 
caught  mine — a  woman's  hand  !  I  had  never  yet  touched 
one.  It  was  as  cold  as  the  skin  of  a  serpent,  and  yet  its 
imprint  remained  with  me,  burning  like  the  mark  of  a  red- 
hot  iron.  It  was  she.  "  Unhappy  man  !  Unhappy  man  ! 
What  hast  thou  done  ?  "  she  cried  in  a  low  voice  ;  then 
she  disappeared  in  the  throng. 

(La  Mart  Amoureuse,  Paris,  about 


His   First   Love  181 


HIS  FIRST  LOVE 

CHARLES  DICKENS 

TT  was — what  lasting  reason  have  I  to  remember  it ! — a 
cold,  harsh,  winter  day.  There  had  been  snow  some 
hours  before  ;  and  it  lay,  not  deep,  but  hard  frozen  on  the 
ground.  Out  at  sea,  beyond  my  window,  the  wind  blew 
ruggedly  from  the  north.  I  had  been  thinking  of  it,  sweep- 
ing over  those  mountain  wastes  of  snow  in  Switzerland, 
then  inaccessible  to  any  human  foot;  and  had  been  specula- 
ting which  was  the  lonelier,  those  solitary  regions,  or  a 
deserted  ocean. 

"  Riding  to-day,  Trot?  "  said  my  aunt,  putting  her  head 
in  at  the  door. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  am  going  over  to  Canterbury.  It's  a 
good  day  for  a  ride." 

"  I  hope  your  horse  may  think  so,  too,"  said  my  aunt ; 
"  but  at  present  he  is  holding  down  his  head  and  his  ears, 
standing  before  the  door  there,  as  if  he  thought  his  stable 
preferable." 

My  aunt,  I  may  observe,  allowed  my  horse  on  the  for- 
bidden ground,  but  had  not  at  all  relented  towards  the 
donkeys. 

u  He  will  be  fresh  enough,  presently  ! "  said  I. 

"  The  ride  will  do  his  master  good,  at  all  events,"  ob- 
served my  aunt,  glancing  at  the  papers  on  my  table.  "  Ah, 
child,  you  pass  a  good  many  hours  here  !  I  never  thought, 
when  I  used  to  read  books,  what  work  it  was  to  write 
them." 

"  It's  work  enough  to  read  them,  sometimes,"  I  returned. 
"  As  to  the  writing,  it  has  its  own  charms,  aunt." 

"Ah  !  I  see!  "  said  my  aunt.  "Ambition,  love  of  ap- 
probation, sympathy,  and  much  more,  I  suppose  ?  Well : 
go  along  with  you  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  anything  more,"  said  I,  standing  com- 
posedly before  her — she  had  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and 
sat  down  in  my  chair, — "  of  that  attachment  of  Agnes  ?  " 


182     Love   in    Literature  a?id  Art 

She  looked  up  in  my  face  a  little  while,  before  replying  : 

"  I  think  I  do,  Trot." 

"  Are  you  confirmed  in  your  impression  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  think  I  am,  Trot." 

She  looked  so  steadfastly  at  me  :  with  a  kind  of  doubt,  or 
pity,  or  suspense  in  her  affection  ;  that  I  summoned  the 
stronger  determination  to  show  her  a  perfectly  cheerful 
face. 

"  And  what  is  more,  Trot — "  said  my  aunt. 

"  Yes ! " 

"I  think  Agnes  is  going  to  be  married." 

"  God  bless  her !  "  said  I,  cheerfully. 

"  God  bless  her  !  "  said  my  aunt,  "  and  her  husband, 
too !  " 

I  echoed  it,  parted  from  my  aunt,  went  lightly  down- 
stairs, mounted,  and  rode  away.  There  was  greater  reason 
than  before  to  do  what  I  had  resolved  to  do. 

How  well  I  recollect  the  wintry  ride  !  The  frozen  par- 
ticles of  ice,  brushed  from  the  blades  of  grass  by  the  wind, 
and  borne  across  my  face  ;  the  hard  clatter  of  the  horse's 
hoofs,  beating  a  tune  upon  the  ground  ;  the  stiff-tilled  soil ; 
the  snow-drift  lightly  eddying  in  the  chalk-pit  as  the  breeze 
ruffled  it ;  the  smoking  team  with  the  waggon  of  old  hay, 
stopping  to  breathe  on  the  hill-top,  and  shaking  their  bells 
musically  ;  the  whitened  slopes  and  sweeps  of  Down-land 
lying  against  the  dark  sky,  as  if  they  were  drawn  on  a  huge 
slate  ! 

I  found  Agnes  alone.  The  little  girls  had  gone  to  their 
own  homes  now,  and  she  was  alone  by  the  fire,  reading. 
She  put  down  her  book  on  seeing  me  come  in ;  and  having 
welcomed  me  as  usual,  took  her  work-basket,  and  sat  in  one 
of  the  old-fashioned  windows. 

I  sat  beside  her  on  the  window-seat,  and  we  talked  of 
what  I  was  doing,  and  when  it  would  be  done,  and  of  the 
progress  I  had  made  since  my  last  visit.  Agnes  was  very 
cheerful;  and  laughingly  predicted  that  I  should  soon  be- 
come too  famous  to  be  talked  to,  on  such  subjects. 

"  So  I  make  the  most  of  the  present  time,  you  see,"  said 
Agnes,  "  and  talk  to  you  while  I  may." 

As  I  looked  at  her  beautiful  face,  observant  of  her  work, 


His   First   Love  183 

she  raised  her  mild  clear  eyes,  and  saw  that  I  was  looking 
at  her. 

"  You  are  thoughtful  to-day,  Trotwood  !  " 

"  Agnes,  shall  I  tell  you  what  about  ?  I  came  to  tell 
you." 

She  put  aside  her  work,  as  she  was  used  to  do  when  we 
were  seriously  discussing  anything  ;  and  gave  me  her  whole 
attention. 

"  My  dear  Agnes,  do  you  doubt  my  being  true  to 
you  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  she  answered,  with  a  look  of  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  being  what  I  always  have  been  to 
you  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  she  answered,  as  before. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  I  tried  to  tell  you,  when  I  came 
home,  what  a  debt  of  gratitude  I  owed  you,  dearest  Agnes, 
and  how  fervently  I  felt  towards  you  ?  " 

"  I  remember  it,"  she  said,  gently,  "  very  well." 

"  You  have  a  secret,"  said  I.  "  Let  me  share  it, 
Agnes." 

She  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  trembled. 

" 1  could  hardly  fail  to  know,  even  if  I  had  not  heard — 
but  from  other  lips  than  yours,  Agnes,  which  seems  strange 
— that  there  is  some  one  upon  whom  you  have  bestowed 
the  treasure  of  your  love.  Do  not  shut  me  out  of  what 
concerns  your  happiness  so  nearly  !  If  you  can  trust  me 
as  you  say  you  can,  and  as  I  know  you  may,  let  me  be  your 
friend,  your  brother,  in  this  matter,  of  all  others  ! " 

With  an  appealing,  almost  a  reproachful,  glance,  she 
rose  from  the  window  ;  and  hurrying  across  the  room  as  if 
without  knowing  where,  put  her  hands  before  her  face,  and 
burst  into  such  tears  as  smote  me  to  the  heart. 

And  yet  they  awakened  something  in  me,  bringing 
promise  to  my  heart.  Without  my  knowing  why,  these 
tears  allied  themselves  with  the  quietly  sad  smile  which  was 
so  fixed  in  my  remembrance,  and  shook  me  more  with  hope 
than  fear  or  sorrow. 

"  Agnes  !     Sister  !     Dearest !     What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Let  me  go  away,  Trotwood.  I  am  not  well.  I  am 
not  myself.  I  will  speak  to  you  by  and  by — another  time. 


184     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

I  will  write  to  you.  Don't  speak  to  me  now.  Don't  ! 
don't  !  " 

I  sought  to  recollect  what  she  had  said,  when  I  had 
spoken  to  her  on  that  former  night,  of  her  affection  need- 
ing no  return.  It  seemed  a  very  world  that  I  must  search 
through  in  a  moment. 

44  Agnes,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  so,  and  think  that  I 
have  been  the  cause.  My  dearest  girl,  dearer  to  me  than 
anything  in  life,  if  you  are  unhappy,  let  me  share  your  un- 
happiness.  If  you  are  in  need  of  help  or  counsel,  let  me 
try  to  give  it  to  you.  If  you  have  indeed  a  burden  on  your 
heart,  let  me  try  to  lighten  it.  For  whom  do  I  live  now, 
Agnes,  if  it  is  not  for  you  ?  " 

44  Oh,  spare  me  !  I  am  not  myself !  Another  time  !  " 
was  all  I  could  distinguish. 

Was  it  a  selfish  error  that  was  leading  me  away  ?  Or, 
having  once  a  clue  to  hope,  was  there  something  opening 
to  me  that  I  had  not  dared  to  think  of? 

44  I  must  say  more.  I  cannot  let  you  leave  me  so  !  For 
Heaven's  sake,  Agnes,  let  us  not  mistake  each  other  after 
all  these  years,  and  all  that  has  come  and  gone  with  them  ! 
I  must  speak  plainly.  If  you  have  any  lingering  thought 
that  I  could  envy  the  happiness  you  will  confer;  that  I 
could  not  resign  you  to  a  dearer  protector,  of  your  own 
choosing  ;  that  I  could  not,  from  my  removed  place,  be  a 
contented  witness  of  your  joy  ;  dismiss  it,  for  I  don't  de- 
serve it!  I  have  not  suffered  quite  in  vain.  You  have  not 
taught  me  quite  in  vain.  There  is  no  alloy  of  self  in  what 
I  feel  for  you." 

She  was  quiet  now.  In  a  little  time,  she  turned  her  pale 
face  towards  me,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  broken  here  and 
there,  but  very  clear : 

41 1  owe  it  to  your  pure  friendship  for  me,  Trotwood — 
which,  indeed,  I  do  not  doubt — to  tell  you,  you  are  mis- 
taken. I  can  do  no  more.  If  I  have  sometimes,  in  the 
course  of  years,  wanted  help  and  counsel,  they  have  come 
to  me.  If  I  have  sometimes  been  unhappy,  the  feeling  has 
passed  away.  If  I  have  ever  had  a  burden  on  my  heart,  it 
has  been  lightened  for  me.  If  I  have  any  secret,  it  is — no 
new  one  j  and  is — not  what  you  suppose.  I  cannot  reveal 


His   First   Love  185 

it,  or  divide  it.  It  has  long  been  mine,  and  must  remain 
mine." 

"  Agnes  !     Stay  !     A  moment !  " 

She  was  going  away,  but  I  detained  her.  I  clasped  my 
arm  about  her  waist.  "  In  the  course  of  years  !  "  "  It  is 
not  a  new  one  !  "  New  thoughts  and  hopes  were  whirling 
through  my  mind,  and  all  the  colours  of  my  life  were 
changing. 

"  Dearest  Agnes  !  Whom  I  so  respect  and  honour — 
whom  I  so  devotedly  love  !  When  I  came  here  to-day,  I 
thought  that  nothing  could  have  wrested  this  confession 
from  me.  I  thought  I  could  have  kept  it  in  my  bosom  all 
our  lives,  till  we  were  old.  But,  Agnes,  if  I  have  indeed 
any  new-born  hope  that  I  may  ever  call  you  something 
more  than  Sister,  widely  different  from  Sister ! " 

Her  tears  fell  fast;  but  th.ey  were  not  like  those  she  had 
lately  shed,  and  I  saw  my  hope  brighten  in  them. 

"  Agnes  !  Ever  my  guide  and  best  support !  If  you  had 
been  more  mindful  of  yourself,  and  less  of  me,  when  we 
grew  up  here  together,  I  think  my  heedless  fancy  never 
would  have  wandered  from  you.  But  you  were  so  much 
better  than  I,  so  necessary  to  me  in  every  boyish  hope  and 
disappointment,  that  to  have  you  to  confide  in,  and  rely 
upon  in  everything,  became  a  second  nature,  supplanting 
for  the  time  the  first  and  greater  one  of  loving  you  as  I 
do!" 

Still  weeping,  but  not  sadly — joyfully  !  And  clasped  in 
my  arms  as  she  had  never  been,  as  I  had  thought  she  never 
was  to  be  ! 

"When  I  loved  Dora — fondly,  Agnes,  as  you 
know " 

"  Yes  !  "  she  cried,  earnestly.  "  I  am  glad  to  know 
it!" 

"  When  I  loved  her — even  then,  my  love  would  have 
been  incomplete,  without  your  sympathy.  I  had  it,  and  it 
was  perfected.  And  when  I  lost  her,  Agnes,  what  should 
I  have  been  without  you,  still !  " 

Closer  in  my  arms,  nearer  to  my  heart,  her  trembling 
hand  upon  my  shoulder,  her  sweet  eyes  shining  through 
her  tears,  on  mine  ! 


186     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

"  I  went  away,  dear  Agnes,  loving  you.  I  stayed  away, 
loving  you.  I  returned  home,  loving  you  !  " 

And  now,  I  tried  to  tell  her  of  the  struggle  I  had  had, 
and  the  conclusion  I  had  come  to.  I  tried  to  lay  my  mind 
before  her,  truly  and  entirely.  I  tried  to  show  her  how  I 
had  hoped  I  had  come  into  the  better  knowledge  of  myself 
and  of  her ;  how  I  had  resigned  myself  to  what  that  better 
knowledge  brought ;  and  how  I  had  come  there,  even  that 
day,  in  my  fidelity  to  this.  If  she  did  so  love  me  (I  said) 
that  she  could  take  me  for  her  husband,  she  could  do  so, 
on  no  deserving  of  mine,  except  upon  the  truth  of  my  love 
for  her,  and  the  trouble  in  which  it  had  ripened  to  be  what 
it  was;  and  hence  it  was  that  I  revealed  it.  And  O, 
Agnes,  even  out  of  thy  true  eyes,  in  that  same  time,  the 
spirit  of  my  child-wife  looked  upon  me,  saying  it  was  well ; 
and  winning  me,  through  thee^to  tenderest  recollections  of 
the  Blossom  that  had  withered  in  its  bloom ! 

"  I  am  so  blest,  Trotwood — my  heart  is  so  overcharged 
— but  there  is  one  thing  I  must  say." 

"  Dearest,  what  ?  " 

She  laid  her  gentle  hands  upon  my  shoulders,  and  looked 
calmly  in  my  face. 

"  Do  you  know,  yet,  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  to  speculate  on  what  it  is.  Tell  me,  my 
dear." 

"  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life  !  " 

Oh,  we  were  happy,  we  were  happy  !  Our  tears  were 
not  for  the  trials  (hers  so  much  the  greater),  through  which 
we  had  come  to  be  thus,  but  for  the  rapture  of  being  thus, 
never  to  be  divided  more  ! 

We  walked,  that  winter  evening,  in  the  fields  together  ; 
and  the  blessed  calm  within  us  seemed  to  be  partaken  by 
the  frosty  air.  The  early  stars  began  to  shine  while  we 
were  lingering  on,  and  looking  up  to  them,  we  thanked  our 
God  for  having  guided  us  to  this  tranquillity. 

We  stood  together  in  the  same  old-fashioned  window  at 
night,  when  the  moon  was  shining  ;  Agnes  with  her  quiet 
eyes  raised  up  to  it  j  I  following  her  glance.  Long  miles 


His  First   Love  187 

of  road  then  opened  out  before  my  mind ;  and,  toiling  on, 
I  saw  a  ragged  way-worn  boy  forsaken  and  neglected,  who 
should  come  to  call  even  the  heart  now  beating  against 
mine,  his  own. 

It  was  nearly  dinner-time  next  day  when  we  appeared 
before  my  aunt.  She  was  up  in  my  study,  Peggotty  said  ; 
which  it  was  her  pride  to  keep  in  readiness  and  order  for 
me.  We  found  her,  in  her  spectacles,  sitting  by  the  fire. 

"  Goodness  me  !  "  said  my  aunt,  peering  through  the 
dusk,  "  who's  this  you're  bringing  home  ?  " 

"Agnes,"  said  I. 

As  we  had  arranged  to  say  nothing  at  first,  my  aunt  was 
not  a  little  discomfited.  She  darted  a  hopeful  glance  at 
me,  when  I  said,  "  Agnes  ;  "  but  seeing  that  I  looked  as 
usual,  she  took  off  her  spectacles  in  despair,  and  rubbed  her 
nose  with  them. 

She  greeted  Agnes  heartily,  nevertheless;  and  we  were 
soon  in  the  lighted  parlour  down-stairs,  at  dinner.  My 
aunt  put  on  her  spectacles  twice  or  thrice,  to  take  another 
look  at  me,  but  as  often  took  them  off  again,  disappointed, 
and  rubbed  her  nose  with  them.  Much  to  the  discomfiture 
of  Mr.  Dick,  who  knew  this  to  be  a  bad  symptom. 

"  By  the  bye,  aunt,"  said  I,  after  dinner;  "I  have  been 
speaking  to  Agnes  about  what  you  told  me." 

"  Then,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  turning  scarlet,  "  you  did 
wrong,  and  broke  your  promise." 

"  You  are  not  angry,  aunt,  I  trust  ?  I  am  sure  you 
won't  be,  when  you  learn  that  Agnes  is  not  unhappy  in  any 
attachment." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense  !  "  said  my  aunt. 

AS  my  aunt  appeared  to  be  annoyed,  I  thought  the  best 
way  was  to  cut  her  annoyance  short.  I  took  Agnes  in  my 
arm  to  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  we  both  leaned  over  her. 
My  aunt  with  one  clap  of  her  hands,  and  one  look  through 
her  spectacles,  immediately  went  into  hysterics,  for  the 
first  and  only  time  in  all  my  knowledge  of  her. 

The  hysterics  called  up  Peggotty.  The  moment  my 
aunt  was  restored,  she  flew  at  Peggotty,  and  calling  her  a 
silly  old  creature,  hugged  her  with  all  her  might.  After 


i88     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

that,  she  hugged  Mr.  Dick  (who  was  highly  honoured,  but 
a  good  deal  surprised);  and  after  that  told  them  why. 
Then  we  were  all  happy  together. 

I  could  not  discover  whether  my  aunt,  in  her  last  con- 
versation with  me  had  fallen  on  a  pious  fraud,  or  had  really 
mistaken  the  state  of  my  mind.  It  was  quite  enough,  she 
said,  that  she  had  told  me  Agnes  was  going  to  be  married  ; 
and  that  I  now  knew  better  than  any  one  how  true  it  was. 

We  were  married  within  a  fortnight.  Traddles  and 
Sophy,  and  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Strong,  were  the  only  guests 
at  our  quiet  wedding.  We  left  them  full  of  joy  ;  and  drove 
away  together.  Clasped  in  my  embrace,  I  held  the  source 
of  every  worthy  aspiration  I  had  ever  had  ;  the  centre  of 
myself,  the  circle  of  my  life,  my  own,  my  wife ;  my  love 
of  whom  was  founded  on  a  rock  ! 

"  Dearest  husband  ! "  said  Agnes.  "  Now  that  I  may 
call  you  by  that  name,  I  have  one  thing  more  to  tell  you." 

"  Let  me  hear  it,  love." 

"It  grows  out  of  the  night  when  Dora  died.  She  sent 
you  for  me." 

"She  did." 

"  She  told  me  that  she  left  me  something.  Can  you 
think  what  it  was  ?  " 

I  believed  I  could.  I  drew  the  wife  who  had  so  long 
loved  me,  closer  to  my  side. 

"  She  told  me  that  she  made  a  last  request  to  me,  and 
left  me  a  last  charge." 

"And  it  was " 

"  That  only  I  would  occupy  this  vacant  place." 

And  Agnes  laid  her  head  upon  my  breast  and  wept  ;  and 
I  wept  with  her,  though  we  were  so  happy. 

(  The  Personal  History  of  David  Copper  field,  London,  1850.} 


Fidelity  in    Love  189 


FIDELITY  IN  LOVE 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


is  the  meaning  of  fidelity  in  love,  and  whence 
the  birth  of  it  ?  'Tis  a  state  of  mind  that  men 
fall  into,  and  depending  on  the  man  rather  than  the  woman. 
We  love  being  in  love,  that's  the  truth  on't.  If  we  had 
not  met  Joan,  we  should  have  met  Kate,  and  adored  her. 
We  know  our  mistresses  are  no  better  than  many  other 
women,  nor  no  prettier,  nor  no  wiser,  nor  no  wittier. 
'Tis  not  for  these  reasons  we  love  a  woman,  or  for  any 
special  quality  or  charm  I  know  of;  we  might  as  well  de- 
mand that  a  lady  should  be  the  tallest  woman  in  the  world, 
like  the  Shropshire  giantess,  as  that  she  should  be  a  paragon 
in  any  other  character,  before  we  began  to  love  her.  Es- 
mond's mistress  had  a  thousand  faults  beside  her  charms  : 
he  knew  both  perfectly  well  ;  she  was  imperious,  she  was 
light-minded,  she  was  flighty,  she  was  false,  she  had  no 
reverence  in  her  character;  she  was  everything,  even  in 
beauty,  the  contrast  of  her  mother,  who  was  the  most 
devoted  and  the  least  selfish  of  women.  Well,  from  the 
very  first  moment  he  saw  her  on  the  stairs  at  Walcote, 
Esmond  knew  he  loved  Beatrice.  There  might  be  better 
women  —  he  wanted  that  one.  He  cared  for  none  other. 
Was  it  because  she  was  gloriously  beautiful  ?  Beautiful  as 
she  was,  he  hath  heard  that  Beatrix's  mother  looked  as 
young,  and  was  the  handsomer  of  the  two.  Why  did  her 
voice  thrill  in  his  ear  so  ?  She  could  not  sing  near  so  well 
as  Nicolini  or  Mrs.  Tofts  ;  nay,  she  sang  out  of  tune,  and 
yet  he  liked  to  hear  her  better  that  St.  Cecilia.  She  had 
not  a  finer  complexion  than  Mrs.  Steele  (Dick's  wife,  whom 
he  had  now  got,  and  who  ruled  poor  Dick  with  a  rod  of  pickle), 
and  yet  to  see  her  dazzled  Esmond  ;  he  would  shut  his 
eyes,  and  the  thought  of  her  dazzled  him  all  the  same. 
She  was  brilliant  and  lively  in  talk,  but  not  so  incomparably 


190     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

witty  as  her  mother,  who,  when  she  was  cheerful,  said  the 
finest  things  ;  but  yet  to  hear  her,  and  to  be  with  her,  was 
Esmond's  greatest  pleasure.  Days  passed  away  between 
him  and  these  ladies,  he  scarce  knew  how.  He  poured  his 
heart  out  to  them,  so  as  he  never  could  in  any  other  com- 
pany, where  he  hath  generally  passed  for  being  moody,  or 
supercilious  and  silent.  This  society  was  more  delightful 
than  that  of  the  greatest  wits  to  him.  May  Heaven  pardon 
him  the  lies  he  told  the  Dowager  at  Chelsea,  in  order  to 
get  a  pretext  for  going  away  to  Kensington  :  the  business 
at  the  Ordnance  which  he  invented ;  the  interview  with  his 
General,  the  courts  and  statesmen's  levees  which  he  didn't 
frequent,  and  described  ;  who  wore  a  new  suit  on  Sunday 
at  St.  James's  or  at  the  Queen's  birthday  ;  how  many 
coaches  filled  the  street  at  Mr.  Harley's  levee  ;  how  many 
bottles  he  had  had  the  honour  to  drink  over  night  with  Mr. 
St.  John  at  the  Cocoa  Tree,  or  at  the  Garter  with  Mr. 
Walpole  and  Mr.  Steele. 

Mistress  Beatrix  Esmond  had  been  a  dozen  times  on  the 
point  of  making  great  matches,  so  the  Court  scandal  said  ; 
but  for  his  part  Esmond  never  would  believe  the  stories 
against  her ;  and  came  back,  after  three  years'  absence  from 
her,  not  as  frantick  as  he  had  been  perhaps,  but  still 
hungering  after  her  and  no  other,  still  hopeful,  still  kneel- 
ing, with  his  heart  in  his  hand  for  the  young  lady  to  take. 
We  were  now  got  to  1709.  She  was  near  twenty-two 
years  old,  and  three  years  at  Court,  and  without  a  husband. 

"  'Tis  not  for  want  of  being  asked,"  Lady  Castlewood 
said,  looking  into  Esmond's  heart,  as  she  could,  with  that 
perception  affection  gives.  "  But  she  will  make  no  mean 
match,  Henry  :  she  will  not  marry  as  I  would  have  her ; 
the  person  whom  I  should  like  to  call  my  son,  and  Henry 
Esmond  knows  who  that  is,  is  best  served  by  my  not  press- 
ing his  claim.  Beatrix  is  so  wilful,  that  what  I  would  urge 
on  her,  she  would  be  sure  to  resist.  The  man  who  would 
marry  her  will  not  be  happy  with  her,  unless  he  be  a  great 
person,  and  can  put  her  in  a  great  position.  Beatrix  loves 
admiration  more  than  love;  and  longs,  beyond  all  things, 
for  command.  Why  should  a  mother  speak  so  of  her 
child  ?  You  are  my  son,  too,  Harry.  You  should  know 


Fragonard. 


L'HEURE  DU  BERGER 


Fidelity   in    Love  191 

the  truth  about  your  sister.  I  thought  you  might  cure 
yourself  of  your  passion,"  my  lady  added  fondly.  "  Other 
people  can  cure  themselves  of  that  folly,  you  know.  But 
I  see  you  are  still  as  infatuated  as  ever.  When  we  read 
your  name  in  the  Gazette,  I  pleaded  for  you,  my  poor  boy. 
Poor  boy,  indeed  !  You  are  growing  a  grave  old  gentle- 
man now,  and  I  am  an  old  woman.  She  likes  your  fame 
well  enough,  and  she  likes  your  person.  She  says  you  have 
wit,  and  fire,  and  good  breeding,  and  are  more  natural  than 
the  fine  gentlemen  of  the  Court.  But  this  is  not  enough. 
She  wants  a  commander-in-chief,  and  not  a  colonel.  Were 
a  duke  to  ask  her,  she  would  leave  an  earl  whom  she  had 
promised.  I  know  not  how  my  poor  girl  is  so  worldly." 

"  Well,"  says  Esmond,  "  a  man  can  but  give  his  best 
and  his  all.  She  has  that  from  me.  What  little  reputation 
I  have  won,  I  swear  I  cared  for  it  but  because  I  thought 
Beatrix  would  be  pleased  with  it.  What  care  I  to  be  a 
colonel  or  a  general  ?  Think  you  'twill  matter  a  few 
score  years  hence,  what  our  foolish  honours  to-day  are  ?  I 
would  have  had  a  little  fame,  that  she  might  wear  it  in  her 
hat.  If  I  had  anything  better,  I  would  endow  her  with  it. 
If  she  wants  my  life,  I  would  give  it  to  her.  If  she 
marries  another,  I  will  say  God  bless  him.  I  make  no 
boast,  nor  no  complaint.  I  think  my  fidelity  is  folly,  per- 
haps. But  so  it  is.  I  cannot  help  myself.  I  love  her. 
You  are  a  thousand  times  better :  the  fondest,  the  fairest, 
the  dearest  of  women.  Sure,  dear  lady,  I  see  all  Beatrix's 
faults  as  well  as  you  do.  But  she  is  my  fate.  'Tis  en- 
durable. I  shall  not  die  for  not  having  her.  I  think  I 
should  be  no  happier  if  I  won  her.  £)ue  voulez-vous  ?  as 
my  Lady  of  Chelsea  would  say.  *Je  I'aime." 

"  I  wish  she  would  have  you,"  said  Harry's  fond  mis- 
tress, giving  a  hand  to  him.  He  kissed  the  fair  hand  ('twas 
the  prettiest  dimpled  little  hand  in  the  world,  and  my  Lady 
Castlewood,  though  now  almost  forty  years  old,  did  not 
look  to  be  within  ten  years  of  her  age).  He  kissed  and 
kept  her  fair  hand,  as  they  talked  together. 

"Why,"  says  he,  "  should  she  hear  me?  She  knows 
what  I  would  say.  Far  or  near  she  knows  I'm  her  slave. 
I  have  sold  myself  for  nothing,  it  may  be.  Well,  'tis  the 


192     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

price  I   choose   to  take.     I   am  worth    nothing,  or   I  am 
worth  all." 

"You  are  such  a  treasure,"  Esmond's  mistress  was 
pleased  to  say,  "  that  the  woman  who  has  your  love, 
shouldn't  change  it  away  against  a  kingdom,  I  think.  I 
am  a  country-bred  woman,  and  cannot  say  but  the  am- 
bitions of  the  town  seem  mean  to  me.  I  never  was  awe- 
stricken  by  my  Lady  Duchess's  rank  and  finery,  or  afraid," 
she  added  with  a  sly  laugh,  "  of  anything  but  her  temper. 
I  hear  of  Court  ladies  who  pine  because  Her  Majesty  looks 
cold  on  them  ;  and  great  noblemen  who  would  give  a  limb 
that  they  might  wear  a  garter  on  the  other.  This  worldli- 
ness,  which  I  can't  comprehend,  was  born  with  Beatrix, 
who,  on  the  first  day  of  her  waiting,  was  a  perfect  courtier. 
We  are  like  sisters,  and  she  the  elder  sister,  somehow. 
She  tells  me  I  have  a  mean  spirit.  I  laugh,  and  say  she 
adores  a  coach-and-six.  I  cannot  reason  her  out  of  her 
ambition.  'Tis  natural  to  her,  as  to  me  to  love  quiet,  and 
be  indifferent  about  rank  and  riches.  What  are  they, 
Harry  ?  and  for  how  long  do  they  last  ?  Our  home  is  not 
here."  She  smiled  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  like  an  angel 
that  was  only  on  earth  on  a  visit. 

(JFbe  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  London,  1852?) 


A   Spirit   Spell  193 

A  SPIRIT  SPELL 

L.  BECQUER 

''"VT'OU  are  looking  pale  and  ill;  you  go  about  sad  and 
sombre ;  what  has  happened  ?  Since  the  day 
which  I  shall  always  consider  fatal,  when  you  went  to  the 
Fountain  of  the  Poplars  in  pursuit  of  the  wounded  stag, 
it  seems  as  if  a  malign  witch  has  cast  an  evil  spell  upon 
you. 

41  You  no  longer  go  to  the  forest  with  your  noisy  pack 
before  you,  and  the  sound  of  your  horns  no  longer  awakes 
the  echoes  of  the  mountains.  Accompanied  by  a  small 
troop  of  followers,  every  morning  you  take  your  bow  into 
the  woods  and  remain  there  until  the  sun  has  set.  And 
when  at  nightfall  you  return  pale  and  wearied  to  the  castle, 
I  vainly  search  the  baskets  for  any  spoils  of  the  chase. 
How  were  so  many  hours  occupied  away  from  those  that 
love  you  most  ?  " 

While  Inigo  was  speaking,  Fernando,  absorbed  in 
thought,  sat  mechanically  cutting  with  his  hunting-knife  at 
the  ebony  nobs  of  his  settee. 

After  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the  rasping  of  the 
blade  on  the  hard  wood,  the  youth,  as  if  he  had  not  heard 
a  single  word,  said  to  his  attendant  : — 

"  Inigo,  you  who  are  old,  you  who  know  all  the  ways  of 
Moncayo,  who  have  lived  in  its  fastnesses  and  hunted  its 
wild  beasts  and  in  your  wandering  hunting  excursions  have 
ascended  more  than  once  to  its  summit,  tell  me  :  have  you 
ever  by  chance  met  with  a  woman  who  dwells  among  its 
crags  ?  " 

"  A  woman  !  "  exclaimed  the  huntsman  looking  at  him 
earnestly  with  amazement. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  youth,  "  a  strange  thing  has  happened 
to  me, — a  very  strange  thing.  I  thought  I  should  be  able 
to  keep  the  secret  eternally  locked  in  my  own  breast,  but  it 
is  no  longer  possible  ;  it  surges  in  my  heart  and  reveals  it- 


194     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

self  in  my  mien.  I  am  therefore  going  to  tell  you  about 
it.  You  shall  help  me  to  dissipate  the  mystery  that  en- 
velops this  being  whose  existence  it  seems  is  only  known 
by  myself,  for  no  one  knows  her,  no  one  has  seen  her,  nor 
can  any  one  give  me  any  account  of  her." 

Without  opening  his  lips  the  huntsman  dragged  his  stool 
close  to  his  master's  settee  while  keeping  his  startled  eyes 
fixed  on  him.  The  latter,  after  a  moment's  pause  to  col- 
lect his  thoughts,  continued  as  follows  : — 

u  Since  the  day  when  in  spite  of  your  ominous  predic- 
tions I  went  to  the  fountain  of  the  Poplars  and,  passing  its 
waters,  recovered  the  stag  which  your  superstition  had  al- 
lowed to  escape,  my  spirit  has  been  filled  with  a  desire  for 
solitude. 

"  You  are  not  acquainted  with  the  place.  Listen,  the 
fountain  takes  its  rise  in  the  cleft  of  a  great  rock  and  falls 
glistening  drop  by  drop  upon  the  green  and  waving  leaves 
that  grow  upon  the  margin  of  its  source.  These  drops 
which,  as  they  scatter,  glitter  like  points  of  gold  and  tinkle 
like  the  notes  of  an  instrument,  gather  among  the  stems 
and,  whispering  and  murmuring  with  a  sound  like  the  bees 
that  hum  around  the  flowers,  trickle  onwards  and  gradually 
form  a  channel  and  struggle  with  the  obstacles  that  oppose 
their  course  and  curve  again  and  leap  and  flow  and  run, 
now  laughing,  now  sighing,  till  they  fall  into  a  lake.  Into 
the  lake  the  rivulet  falls  with  a  noise  quite  impossible  to 
describe.  Lamentations,  words,  names,  songs,  I  know  not 
what  I  heard  in  that  sound  as  I  sat  alone  and  feverish  on 
that  rock  at  whose  foot  flowed  the  waters  of  the  mysterious 
fountain  to  lose  themselves  in  a  dark  pool  whose  motion- 
less surface  was  scarcely  crimpled  by  the  evening  breeze. 

"  Everything  there  has  a  sense  of  grandeur.  Solitude 
with  its  thousand  unknown  sounds  dwells  there  and  steeps 
the  spirit  in  its  inexpressible  melancholy.  Among  the  sil- 
very leaves  of  the  poplars,  in  the  hollows  of  the  rocks,  in 
the  waters  of  the  lake,  the  invisible  spirits  of  Nature  seem 
to  be  speaking  to  us,  recognizing  a  brother  in  the  immortal 
spirit  of  man. 

"  When  at  dawn  on  the  morrow  you  saw  me  take  my 
bow  and  set  out  for  the  mountain,  it  was  not  to  plunge  into 


A  Spirit   Spell  195 

its  thickets  in  pursuit  of  game,  no ;  I  went  to  sit  by  the 
brink  of  the  fountain  to  seek  in  its  waters — I  know  not 
what;  a  foolish  fancy  !  When  I  had  leaped  across  it  on  my 
horse  Lightning  I  had  thought  I  saw  shining  in  its  depths 
something  strange, — very  strange — the  eyes  of  a  woman. 

"  It  may  have  been  a  fugitive  ray  of  sunlight  that  pierced 
the  green  scum  ;  it  may  have  been  one  of  those  flowers 
that  float  among  the  weeds  on  the  bottom  and  whose  petals 
look  like  emeralds.  I  know  not :  I  thought  however  that 
I  encountered  a  gaze  that  fastened  on  mine ;  a  gaze  that 
fired  my  heart  with  an  absurd  and  unattainable  desire :  a 
desire  to  meet  with  a  woman  with  eyes  like  those. 

"  Day  after  day  I  went  to  that  spot  in  search  of  her. 

"  At  last,  one  afternoon — I  thought  I  must  be  dreaming 
— but  no,  it  was  reality,  for  I  have  talked  with  her  many 
times  since  then,  even  as  I  am  talking  to  you  now,  one 
afternoon,  sitting  in  my  accustomed  seat  I  found  a  woman 
clad  in  a  robe  that  swept  to  the  water  and  floated  above  its 
haze,  a  woman  beautiful  beyond  all  imagination.  Her 
tresses  were  like  gold  ;  her  lashes  glittered  like  little  threads 
of  light  and  beneath  those  lashes  restlessly  moved  the  eyes 
that  I  had  seen, — yes ;  for  the  eyes  of  this  woman  were 
the  eyes  that  had  fastened  on  my  soul ;  eyes  of  an  impos- 
sible colour  ;  eyes  of " 

"  Green  !  "  cried  Inigo  in  accents  of  terror,  springing  to 
his  feet  in  his  excitement. 

Fernando  gazed  at  him  in  his  turn  as  though  dreading 
what  more  he  was  about  to  reveal  and  asked  with  mingled 
anxiety  and  joy  : — "  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,"  said  the  hunter ;  "  God  preserve  me  from 
knowing  her !  But  my  parents,  to  keep*  me  from  going 
near  the  place,  told  me  a  thousand  times  that  the  spirit, 
fairy,  demon,  or  woman  that  dwells  in  its  waters  has  eves 
of  that  colour.  I  conjure  you  by  all  that  you  hold  dearest 
on  earth  never  to  return  to  the  Fountain  of  the  Poplars. 
Some  day  or  other  you  will  surely  suffer  from  her  venge- 
ance and  expiate  with  your  life  the  offence  of  having  dis- 
turbed her  waters." 

"  By  all  that  I  hold  dearest  !  "  murmured  the  youth  with 
a  sad  smile. 


196     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  old  man  ;  by  your  parents,  by 
your  kindred,  by  the  tears  of  her  whom  Heaven  destines  to 
be  your  bride,  by  those  also  of  the  old  servant  who  has 
been  with  you  from  your  birth  — 

"  Do  you  know  whom  I  love  most  in  this  world  ?  Do 
you  know  for  whose  sake  I  would  forfeit  the  love  of  my 
father,  the  kisses  of  her  who  gave  me  birth  and  all  the 
tenderness  that  all  the  women  of  the  world  could  lavish 
upon  me  ? — for  one  glance,  for  one  single  glance  from 
those  eyes  !  How  could  I  cease  to  seek  them  ?  " 

P'ernando  uttered  these  words  with  such  an  accent  that 
the  tear  that  was  trembling  on  Inigo's  lid  fell  silently  upon 
his  cheek  as  he  sorrowfully  exclaimed :  "  Heaven's  will  be 
done !  " 


"  Who  art  thou  ?  What  is  thy  country  ?  Where  is 
thy  dwelling  ?  Day  after  day  I  come  in  search  of  thee 
but  I  see  neither  the  steed  that  brings  thee  here,  nor  the 
servants  that  bear  thy  litter.  Lay  aside  for  once  the  veil 
of  mystery  that  envelops  thee  like  a  dark  night.  I  love 
thee,  and,  noble  or  plebeian,  I  will  be  thine,  thine  forever." 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  summit  of  the  mountain  ; 
the  shadows  were  descending  its  sides  with  giant  strides  ; 
the  breeze  was  sighing  among  the  leaves  of  the  poplars  of 
the  fountain,  and  the  mist,  rising  slowly  from  the  surface  of 
the  lake,  was  beginning  to  enfold  the  rocks  on  its  margin. 

On  one  of  those  rocks  which  seemed  ready  to  fall  into 
the  water  whose  surface  tremblingly  mirrored  him,  was  the 
heir  of  Almenar  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  his  mysterious  love 
vainly  seeking  to  learn  the  secret  of  her  being. 

She  was  beautiful,  pale  and  beautiful  as  a  statue  of  ala- 
baster. One  of  her  locks  fell  over  her  shoulders  and  lay 
shining  among  the  folds  of  her  veil  like  a  sun-ray  piercing 
dark  clouds  and  within  the  oval  of  her  red-gold  eyelashes 
her  pupils  gleamed  like  two  emeralds  in  a  golden  setting. 

When  the  youth  ceased  speaking,  her  lips  moved  as  if  to 
utter  some  words ;  but  a  sigh  alone  escaped  them,  a  sigh 
faint  and  sorrowful  like  the  light  wave  that,  impelled  by  a 
gentle  zephyr,  dies  among  the  rushes. 


A  Spirit   Spell  197 

"  Thou  dost  not  answer  me !  "  exclaimed  Fernando 
finding  his  hopes  thus  frustrated.  "  Dost  thou  wish  me  to 
believe  what  they  have  told  me  of  thee  ?  Oh  !  no. 
Speak  to  me  :  I  want  to  know  if  thou  lovest  me  ;  if  I  may 
love  thee ;  if  thou  art  a  woman." 

u  Or  a  demon.     .     .     .     And  if  I  were  ?  " 

The  youth  hesitated  for  a  moment;  a  cold  perspiration 
broke  out  all  over  him,  his  pupils  dilated  only  to  fasten 
with  greater  intensity  on  those  of  this  woman,  and  fasci- 
nated by  their  phosphorescent  brilliancy  and  almost  out  of 
his  mind,  he  exclaimed  in  wild  outburst  of  passion  : — 

"If  thou  wert  ...  I  would  love  thee  ...  I 
would  love  thee  then  as  I  love  thee  now,  as  it  is  my  fate 
to  love  thee  in  this  life  and  beyond,  if  there  is  a  beyond." 

41  Fernando,"  then  said  the  lovely  woman  in  a  voice  like 
music,  "  I  love  thee  more  even  than  thou  lovest  me,  I,  who 
have  come  down  to  a  mortal  yet  being  a  pure  spirit !  I 
am  not  a  woman  like  those  that  dwell  on  the  earth  ;  I  am 
a  woman  worthy  of  thee  who  art  superior  to  all  other  men. 
I  dwell  in  the  bosom  of  these  waters,  like  them  incorpo^ 
real,  fugitive  and  transparent,  I  speak  with  their  sounds  and 
undulate  with  their  folds. 

"  I  do  not  punish  him  who  dares  to  disturb  the  fountain 
in  which  I  dwell ;  rather  will  I  reward  him  with  my  love 
as  being  a  mortal  superior  to  the  superstitions  of  the  vul- 
gar, as  a  lover  capable  of  comprehending  my  strange  and 
mysterious  tenderness." 

While  she  was  thus  speaking,  the  youth,  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  her  weird  beauty  and  drawn  as  by  some 
unknown  power,  approached  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  edge 
of  the  rock.  The  woman  of  the  green  eyes  proceeded 
thus  : — 

"  Look,  look  into  the  limpid  depths  of  the  lake ;  dost 
thou  see  those  plants  with  large  green  leaves  that  are  wa- 
ving in  the  depths  ?  They  shall  provide  us  with  a  couch  of 
emerald  and  coral,  and  I,  I  will  give  thee  a  happiness  with- 
out name,  that  happiness  of  which  thou  hast  dreamed  in 
thy  hours  of  delirium  and  which  no  one  else  could  ever 
offer  thee.  Come,  the  mist  of  the  quiet  lake  is  floating 
above  our  heads  like  a  gauzy  canopy,  the  waters  are  calling 


198     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

to  us  with  their  unknown  voices,  the  breeze  is  chanting  its 
hymns  of  love  among  the  poplars  ;  come,  come  !  " 

Night  was  beginning  to  extend  and  deepen  her  shadows, 
the  moon  was  smiling  on  the  surface  of  the  lake,  the  mist 
rolled  away  before  the  breath  of  the  breeze,  and  the  green 
eyes  glimmered  in  the  obscurity  like  dancing  fires  among 
the  exhalations  of  stagnant  waters.  "  Come,  come  !  "  these 
words  beat  upon  Ferdinand's  ears  like  an  incantation. 
"  Come ! "  and  the  mysterious  woman  lured  him  to  the 
brink  of  the  abyss  where  she  was  hovering  and  seemed  to 
offer  him  her  lips  for  a  kiss  ...  a  kiss  . 
Ferdinand  took  a  step  towards  her  .  .  .  another 
and  felt  her  slender  and  flexible  arms  clinging 
about  his  neck  and  a  cold  sensation  upon  his  burning  lips, 
a  kiss  of  snow  ...  he  tottered  and  lost  his  footing 
and  fell  into  the  lake  with  a  mournful  and  deadly  sound. 

The  waters  leaped  glistening  in  beads  of  light  and  closed 
above  him,  and  their  circles  of  silver  went  on  enlarging  and 
extending  till  they  died  among  the  rushes. 

( Obras,   Madrid,   l8jj ;   translated  from   the    Spanish   by 
Arthur  Shadwell  Martin.) 


A   Timid  U^ooer  199 


A  TIMID  WOOER 

CUTHBERT  BEDE 

'IPHERE  was  a  gate  in  the  kitchen-garden  of  Honey- 
wood  Hall  that  led  into  an  orchard;  and  in  this 
orchard  there  was  a  certain  apple-tree  that  had  assumed 
one  of  those  peculiarities  of  form  to  which  the  children  of 
Pomona  are  addicted.  After  growing  upright  for  about  a 
foot  and  a  half,  it  had  suddenly  shot  out  at  right  angles, 
with  a  gentle  upward  slope  for  a  length  of  between  three 
and  four  feet,  and  had  then  again  struck  up  into  the  per- 
pendicular. It  thus  formed  a  natural  orchard  seat,  capable 
of  holding  two  persons  comfortably — provided  that  they 
regarded  a  close  proximity  as  comfortable  sitting. 

One  day  Miss  Patty  directed  Verdant's  attention  to  this 
vagary  of  nature.  "  This  is  one  of  my  favourite  haunts," 
she  said.  "  I  often  steal  here  on  a  hot  day  with  some  work 
or  a  book.  You  see  this  upper  branch  makes  quite  a  little 
table,  and  I  can  rest  my  book  upon  it.  It  is  so  pleasant  to 
be  under  the  shade  here,  with  the  fruit  or  blossoms  over 
one's  head ;  and  it  is  so  snug  and  retired,  and  out  of  the 
way  of  every  one." 

"  It  is  very  snug — and  very  retired,"  said  Mr.  Verdant 
Green ;  and  he  thought  that  now  would  be  the  very  time 
to  put  in  execution  a  project  that  had  for  some  days  past 
been  haunting  his  brain. 

"When  Kitty  and  I,"  said  Miss  Patty,  "have  any  se- 
crets we  come  here  and  tell  them  to  each  other  while  we 
sit  at  our  work. — No  one  can  hear  what  we  say ;  and  we 
are  quite  snug  all  to  ourselves." 

Very  odd,  thought  Verdant,  that  they  should  fix  on  this 
particular  spot  for  confidential  communications,  and  take 
the  trouble  to  come  here  to  make  them,  when  they  could 
do  so  in  their  own  rooms  at  the  house.  And  yet  it  isn't 
such  a  bad  spot  either. 

"Try  how  comfortable  a  seat  it  is,"  said  Miss  Patty. 


200     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Mr.  Verdant  Green  began  to  feel  hot.  He  sat  down, 
however,  and  tested  the  comforts  of  the  seat,  much  in  the 
same  way  as  he  would  try  the  spring  of  a  lounging  chair, 
and  apparently  with  a  like  result,  for  he  said,  "  Yes,  it  is 
very  comfortable — very  comfortable  indeed." 

"  I  thought  you'd  like  it,"  said  Miss  Patty  j  "  and  you 
see  how  nicely  the  branches  droop  all  round :  they  make 
it  quite  an  arbour.  If  Kitty  had  been  here  with  me  I  think 
you  would  have  had  some  trouble  to  have  found  us." 

"I  think  I  should  ;  it  is  quite  a  place  to  hide  in,"  said 
Verdant.  But  the  young  lady  and  gentleman  must  have 
been  speaking  with  the  spirit  of  ostriches,  and  have  imag- 
ined that,  when  they  had  hidden  their  heads,  they  had  alto- 
gether concealed  themselves  from  observation ;  for  the 
branches  of  the  apple-tree  only  drooped  low  enough  to  con- 
ceal the  upper  part  of  their  figures,  and  left  the  rest  exposed 
to  view.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  also  ?  "  asked  Verdant, 
with  a  gasp  and  a  sensation  in  his  head  as  though  he  had 
been  drinking  champagne  too  freely. 

"I'm  afraid  there's  scarcely  room  enough  for  me," 
pleaded  Miss  Patty. 

"  Oh  yes,  there  is,  indeed  !  pray  sit  down." 

So  she  sat  on  the  lower  part  of  the  trunk.  Mr.  Verdant 
Green  glanced  rapidly  round  and  perceived  that  they  were 
quite  alone,  and  partly  shrouded  from  view.  The  follow- 
ing highly  interesting  conversation  then  took  place. 

He.  "Won't  you  change  places  with  me?  you'll  slip 
off." 

She.     "  No — I  think  I  can  manage." 

He.     "  But  you  can  come  closer." 

She.     "  Thanks."     [She  comes  closer.] 

He.     "  Isn't  that  more  comfortable  ?  " 

She.     "Yes — very  much." 

He.  [very  hot,  and  not  knowing  what  to  say~\.  "  I — I 
think  you'll  slip." 

She.     "  Oh  no  !  it's  very  comfortable  indeed." 

[That  is  to  say — thinks  Mr.  Verdant  Green — that  sit- 
ting BY  ME  is  very  comfortable.  Hurrah  !] 

She.     "  It's  very  hot,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

He.     "  How  very  odd  !   I  was  just  thinking  the  same." 


A   Timid  ff^ooer  201 

She.     "  I   think  I   shall  take  my  hat  off — it  is  so  warm. 
Dear  me  !  how  stupid  ! — the  strings  are  in  a  knot." 
He.     "  Let  me  see  if  I  can  untie  them  for  you." 
She.     "  Thanks  !  no  !  I  can  manage."    [But  she  cannot .] 
He.     "  You'd  better  let  me  try  !  now  do  !  " 
She.     "  Oh,  thanks  !  but  I'm  sorry  you  should  have  the 
trouble." 

He.  "  No  trouble  at  all.  Quite  a  pleasure." 
In  a  very  hot  condition  of  mind  and  fingers,  Mr.  Verdant 
Green  then  endeavoured  to  release  the  strings  from  their 
entanglement.  But  all  in  vain :  he  tugged,  and  pulled, 
and  only  made  matters  worse.  Once  or  twice  in  the 
struggle  his  hands  touched  Miss  Patty's  chin;  and  no 
highly-charged  electrical  machine  could  have  imparted  a 
shock  greater  than  that  tingling  sensation  of  pleasure  which 
Mr.  Verdant  Green  experienced  when  his  fingers,  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second,  touched  Miss  Patty's  soft  dimpled 
chin.  Then  there  was  her  beautiful  neck,  so  white,  and 
with  such  blue  veins !  he  had  an  irresistible  desire  to  stroke 
it  for  its  very  smoothness — as  one  loves  to  feel  the  polish 
of  marble,  or  the  glaze  of  wedding-cards — instead  of  em- 
ploying his  hands  in  fumbling  at  the  brown  ribands,  whose 
knots  became  more  complicated  than  ever.  Then  there 
was  her  happy  rosy  face,  so  close  to  which  his  own  was 
brought ;  and  her  bright,  laughing,  hazel  eyes,  in  which, 
as  he  timidly  looked  up,  he  saw  little  daguerreotypes  of  him- 
self. Would  that  he  could  retain  such  a  photographer  by 
his  side  through  life  !  Miss  Bouncer's  camera  was  as  noth- 
ing compared  with  the  camera  lucida  of  those  clear  eyes, 
that  shone  upon  him  so  truthfully,  and  mirrored  for  him 
such  pretty  pictures.  And  what  with  these  eyes,  and  the 
face,  and  the  chin,  and  the  neck,  Mr.  Verdant  Green  was 
brought  into  such  an  irretrievable  state  of  mental  excite- 
ment that  he  was  perfectly  unable  to  render  Miss  Patty  the 
service  he  had  proffered.  But,  more  than  that,  he  had  as 
yet  lacked  sufficient  courage  to  carry  out  his  darling  project. 
At  length  Miss  Patty  untied  the  rebellious  knot,  and  took 
off  her  hat.  The  highly  interesting  conversation  was  then 
resumed. 

She.     "  What  a  frightful  state  my  hair  is  in  !  "     [Loops 


202     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

up  an  escaped  lock.~\  "  You  must  think  me  so  untidy.  But 
out  in  the  country  and  in  a  place  like  this  where  no  one 
sees  us,  it  makes  one  careless  of  appearance." 

He.  "  I  like  '  a  sweet  neglect,'  especially  in — in  some 
people ;  it  suits  them  so  well.  I — 'pon  my  word,  it's  very 
hot ! " 

She.  "  But  how  much  hotter  it  must  be  from  under  the 
shade.  It  is  so  pleasant  here.  It  seems  so  dreamlike  to  sit 
among  the  shadows  and  look  out  upon  the  bright  landscape." 

He.  "  It  is — very  jolly — soothing,  at  least !"  [A  pause. .] 
"  I  think  you'll  slip.  Do  you  know,  I  think  it  will  be  safer 
if  you  will  let  me  "  \_here  his  courage  fails  him.  He  en- 
deavours to  say  "  put  my  arm  round  your  waist,"  but  his 
tongue  refuses  to  speak  the  words ;  so  he  substitutes  "  change 
places  with  you."] 

She  [rises  with  a  look  of  amused  vexation],  "  Certainly  ! 
If  you  so  particularly  wish  it."  [  They  change  places.] 
"  Now  you  see,  you  have  lost  by  the  change.  You  are  too 
tall  for  that  end  of  the  seat,  and  it  did  very  nicely  for  a 
little  body  like  me." 

He  [with  a  thrill  of  delight  and  a  sudden  burst  of  strategy]. 
"  I  can  hold  on  to  this  branch,  if  my  arm  will  not  incon- 
venience you." 

She.  "  Oh  no  !  not  particularly  :  "  \he  passes  his  right 
arm  behind  her,  and  takes  hold  of  a  bough  :]  "  but  I  should 
think  it's  not  very  comfortable  for  you." 

He.  "I  couldn't  be  more  comfortable,  I'm  sure." 
[Nearly  slips  off  the  tree,  and  doubles  up  his  legs  into  an  un- 
picturesque  attitude  highly  suggestive  of  misery. — A  pause.] 
"  And  do  you  tell  your  secrets  here  ?  " 

She.  "  My  secrets  ?  Oh,  I  see — you  mean,  with  Kitty. 
Oh,  yes!  if  this  tree  could  talk,  it  would  be  able  to  tell 
such  dreadful  stories." 

He.  "  I  wonder  if  it  could  tell  any  dreadful  stories  of — 
me?" 

She.  "  Of  you  ?  Oh,  no  !  Why  should  it  ?  We  are 
only  severe  on  those  we  dislike." 

He.     "  Then  you  don't  dislike  me  ?  " 

She.     "  No  ! — why  should  we  ? 

He.     "  Well — I  don't  know — but  I  thought  you  might. 


A    Timid  W^ooer  203 

Well,  I'm  glad  of  that — I'm  very  glad  of  that.  'Pon  my 
word,  it's  very  hot !  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

She.  "  Yes  !  I'm  burning.  But  I  don't  think  we  should 
find  a  cooler  place."  \_Does  not  evince  any  symptoms  of 
moving.] 

He.  "Well,  p'raps  we  shouldn't."  \_A  pause  ^\  "Do 
you  know  that  I'm  very  glad  you  don't  dislike  me  ;  because, 
it  wouldn't  have  been  pleasant  to  be  disliked  by  you,  would 
it  ?  " 

She.  "  Well — of  course,  I  can't  tell.  It  depends  upon 
one's  own  feelings." 

He.     "  Then  you  don't  dislike  me  ?  " 

She.     "  Oh  dear,  no  !   why  should  I  ?  " 

He.  "  And  if  you  don't  dislike  me,  you  must  like 
me  ? " 

She.     "  Yes — at  least — I  suppose  so." 

At  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  the  arm  that  Mr.  Ver- 
dant Green  had  passed  behind  Miss  Patty  thrilled  with 
such  a  peculiar  sensation  that  his  hand  slipped  down  the 
bough,  and  the  arm  consequently  came  against  Miss  Patty's 
waist,  where  it  rested.  The  necessity  for  saying  some- 
thing, the  wish  to  make  that  something  the  something  that 
was  bursting  his  heart  and  brain,  and  the  dread  of  letting  it 
escape  his  lips — these  three  varied  and  mingled  sensations 
so  distracted  poor  Mr.  Verdant  Green's  mind,  that  he  was 
no  more  conscious  of  what  he  was  giving  utterance  to  than 
if  he  had  been  talking  in  a  dream.  But  there  was  Miss 
Patty  by  his  side — a  very  tangible  and  delightful  reality — 
playing  (somewhat  nervously)  with  those  rebellious  strings 
of  her  hat,  which  loosely  hung  in  her  hand,  while  the  dappled 
shadows  flickered  on  the  waving  masses  of  her  rich  brown 
hair, — so  something  must  be  said ;  and,  if  it  should  lead  to 
the  something,  why  so  much  the  better. 

Returning,  therefore,  to  the  subject  of  like  and  dislike, 
Mr.  Verdant  Green  managed  to  say,  in  a  choking,  faltering 
tone,  "  I  wonder  how  much  you  like  me — very  much  ?  " 

She.  "Oh,  I  couldn't  tell— how  should  I?  What 
strange  questions  you  ask  !  You  saved  my  life ;  so,  of 
course,  I  am  very,  very  grateful ;  and  I  hope  I  shall  always 
be  your  friend." 


204     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

He.  "  Yes,  I  hope  so  indeed — always — and  something 
more.  Do  you  hope  the  same  ?  " 

She.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  Hadn't  we  better  go  back 
to  the  house  ?  " 

He.  "  Not  just  yet — it's  so  cool  here — at  least,  not  cool 
exactly,  but  hot — pleasanter,  that  is — much  pleasanter 
here.  You  said  so,  you  know,  a  little  while  since.  Don't 
mind  me  ;  I  always  feel  hot  when — when  I  am  out  of 
doors." 

She.     "  Then  we'd  better  go  indoors." 

He.  "  Pray  don't — not  yet — do  stop  a  little  longer." 
And  the  hand  that  had  been  on  the  bough  of  the  tree,  timidly 
seized  Miss  Patty's  arm,  and  then  naturally,  but  very  gently, 
fell  upon  her  waist.  A  thrill  shot  through  Mr.  Verdant 
Green,  like  an  electric  flash,  and,  after  traversing  from  his 
head  to  his  heels,  probably  passed  out  safely  at  his  boots — 
for  it  did  him  no  harm,  but,  on  the  contrary  made  him  feel 
all  the  better. 

"But,"  said  the  young  lady,  as  she  felt  the  hand  upon  her 
waist — not  that  she  was  really  displeased  at  the  proceeding, 
but  perhaps  she  thought  it  best,  under  the  circumstances,  to 
say  something  that  should  have  the  resemblance  of  a  veto — 
"but  it  is  not  necessary  to  hold  me  a  prisoner." 

"  It  is  you  that  hold  me  a  prisoner !  "  said  Mr.  Verdant 
Green,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  enthusiasm  and  blushes,  and 
a  great  stress  upon  the  pronouns. 

"  Now  you  are  talking  nonsense,  and,  if  so,  I  must  go  !  " 
said  Miss  Patty.  And  she  also  blushed  ;  perhaps  it  was 
from  the  heat.  But  she  removed  Mr.  Verdant  Green's 
hand  from  her  waist,  and  he  was  much  too  frightened  to 
replace  it. 

"  Oh  !  do  stay  a  little  ! "  gasped  the  young  gentleman, 
with  an  awkward  sensation  of  want  of  employment  for  his 
hands.  "  You  said  that  secrets  were  told  here.  I  don't 
want  to  talk  nonsense ;  I  don't  indeed  ;  but  the  truth. 
I've  a  secret  to  tell  you.  Should  you  like  to  hear  it  ? " 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  laughed  Miss  Patty.  "  I  like  to  hear  secrets." 
Now,  how  absurd  it  was  in  Mr.  Verdant  Green  wasting 
time  in  beating  about  the  bush  in  this  ridiculously  timid 
way  !  Why  could  he  not  at  once  boldly  secure  his  bird 


A    Timid  W^ooer  205 

by  a  straight-forward  shot  ?  She  did  not  fly  out  of  his  range 
— did  she  ?  And  yet,  here  he  was  making  himself  un- 
necessarily hot  and  unnecessarily  uncomfortable,  when  he 
might,  by  taking  it  coolly,  have  been  at  his  ease  in  a  moment. 
What  a  foolish  young  man  !  Nay,  he  still  further  lost  time, 
and  evaded  his  purpose  by  saying  once  again  to  Miss 
Patty — instead  of  immediately  replying  to  her  observation — 
"  'Pon  my  word,  it's  uncommonly  hot !  don't  you  think  so  ? " 

Upon  which  Miss  Patty  replied,  with  some  little  chagrin, 
"  And  was  that  your  secret  ? "  If  she  had  lived  in  the 
Elizabethan  era  she  could  have  adjured  him  with  a  "  Marry, 
come  up  !  "  which  would  have  brought  him  to  the  point 
without  any  further  trouble ;  but  living  in  a  Victorian  age, 
she  could  do  no  more  than  say  what  she  did,  and  leave  the 
rest  of  her  meaning  to  the  language  of  the  eyes. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me  !  "  urged  the  bashful  and  weak- 
minded  young  man;  "don't  laugh  at  me!  If  you  only 
knew  what  I  feel  when  you  laugh  at  me,  you'd " 

"  Cry,  I  dare  say,"  said  Miss  Patty,  cutting  him  short 
with  a  merry  smile,  and  (it  must  be  confessed)  a  most 
wickedly-roguish  expression  about  those  bright,  flashing, 
hazel  eyes  of  hers.  "  Now,  you  haven't  told  me  this 
wonderful  secret  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  Mr.  Verdant  Green,  slowly  and  deliberately 
— feeling  that  his  time  was  coming  on,  and  cowardly 
anxious  still  to  fight  off  tKe  fatal  words — "you  said  that 
you  didn't  dislike  me ;  and,  in  fact,  that  you  liked  me  very 
much  ;  and " 

But  here  Miss  Patty  cut  him  short  again.  She  turned 
sharply  round  upon  him  with  those  bright  eyes  and  that 
merry  face,  and  said,  "  Oh  !  how  can  you  say  so  ?  I  never 
said  anything  of  the  sort!  " 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Verdant  Green,  who  was  now  des- 
perate, and  mentally  prepared  to  take  the  dreaded  plunge 
into  that  throbbing  sea  that  beats  upon  the  strand  of  matri- 
mony, whether  you  like  me  very  much  or  not,  7  like  you  very 
much! — very  much  indeed!  Ever  since  I  saw  you,  since 
last  Christmas,  I've — I've  liked  you — very  much  indeed." 

Mr.  Verdant  Green  in  a  very  hot  and  excited  state,  had, 
while  he  was  speaking,  timidly  brought  his  hand  once  more 


2o6     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

to  Miss  Patty's  waist ;  and  she  did  not  interfere  with  its 
position.  In  fact,  she  was  bending  down  her  head,  and 
was  gazing  intently  on  another  knot  that  she  had  wilfully 
made  in  her  hat-strings ;  and  she  was  working  so  violently 
at  that  occupation  of  untying  the  knot,  that  very  probably 
she  might  not  have  been  aware  of  the  situation  of  Mr. 
Verdant  Green's  hand.  At  any  rate,  her  own  hands  were 
too  much  busied  to  suffer  her  to  interfere  with  his. 

At  last  the  climax  had  arrived.  Mr.  Verdant  Green  had 
screwed  his  courage  to  the  sticking  point,  and  had  resolved 
to  tell  the  secret  of  his  love.  He  had  got  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  precipice,  and  was  on  the  point  of  jumping  over 
head  and  ears  into  the  stream  of  his  destiny,  and  of  burst- 
ing into  any  excited  form  of  words  that  should  make  known 
his  affection  and  his  designs,  when — when  a  vile  perfume 
of  tobacco,  a  sudden  barking  rush  of  Huz  and  Buz,  and 
the  horrid  voice  of  little  Mr.  Bouncer,  dispelled  the  bright 
vision,  dispersed  his  ideas,  and  prevented  the  fulfilment  of 
his  purpose. 

"  Holloa,  Giglamps  !  "  roared  the  little  gentleman,  as  he 
removed  a  short  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  expelled  an  as- 
cending curl  of  smoke  ;  "  I've  been  looking  for  you  every- 
where !  Here  we  are, — as  Hamlet's  uncle  said, — all  in  the 
horchard  !  I  hope  he's  not  been  pouring  poison  in  your 
ear,  Miss  Honeywood  ;  he  looks  rather  guilty.  The  Mum 
— I  mean  your  mother — sent  me  to  find  you.  The  lunch- 
eon's been  on  the  table  more  than  an  hour !  " 

Luckily  for  Mr.  Verdant  Green  and  Miss  Patty  Honey- 
wood,  little  Mr.  Bouncer  rattled  on  without  waiting  for  any 
reply  to  his  observations,  and  thus  enabled  the  young  lady 
to  somewhat  recover  her  presence  of  mind,  and  to  effect  a 
hasty  retreat  from  under  the  apple  tree,  and  through  the 
garden  gate. 

"  I  say,  old  feller,"  said  Mr.  Bouncer,  as  he  criticised 
Mr.  Verdant  Green's  countenance  over  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe,  "  you  look  rather  in  a  stew  !  What's  up  ?  My 
gum  !  "  cried  the  little  gentleman,  as  an  idea  of  the  truth 
suddenly  flashed  upon  him  ;  "  you  don't  mean  to  say  you've 
been  doing  the  spooney — what  you  call  making  love — have 
you  ?  " 


A   Timid  Wooer  207 

"  Oh,"  groaned  the  person  addressed,  as  he  followed  out 
the  train  of  his  own  ideas ;  "  if  you  had  but  have  come 
five  minutes  later — or  not  at  all !  It's  most  provoking  !  " 

"  Well  !  you're  a  grateful  bird,  I  don't  think  !  "  said 
Mr.  Bouncer.  "  Cut  after  her  into  luncheon,  and  have  it 
out  over  the  cold  mutton  and  pickles  !  " 

"  Oh  no  !  "  responded  the  luckless  lover;  "I  can't  eat 
— especially  before  the  others !  I  mean — I  couldn't  talk 
to  her  before  the  others.  Oh  !  I  don't  know  what  I'm 
saying." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you  do,  old  feller!"  said  Mr. 
Bouncer,  puffing  away  at  his  pipe.  "  I'm  sorry  I  was  in 
the  road,  though  !  because  though  I  fight  shy  of  those  sort 
of  things  myself,  yet  I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  the 
little  weaknesses  of  other  folks.  But  come  and  have  a 
pipe,  old  feller,  and  we'll  talk  matters  over,  and  see  what 
pips  are  on  the  cards,  and  what's  the  state  of  the  game." 

(The  Adventures  of  Mr.  Verdant  Green,  London,  1853.) 


208     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


A  GENEROUS  LOVER 

CHARLES  DICKENS 

T  WAS  going  out  at  the  door,  when  he  asked  me  to  stay 
a  moment.  Quickly  turning  round,  I  saw  that  same 
expression  on  his  face  again  ;  and  all  at  once,  I  don't  know 
how,  it  flashed  upo'n  me  as  a  new  and  far  off  possibility 
that  I  understood  it. 

"  My  dear  Esther,"  said  my  Guardian,  "  I  have  long  had 
something  in  my  thoughts  that  I  have  wished  to  say  to 
you." 

"  Indeed  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  some  difficulty  in  approaching  it,  and  I  still 
have.  I  should  wish  it  to  be  so  deliberately  said,  and  so 
deliberately  considered.  Would  you  object  to  my  writing 
it  ?  " 

"Dear  Guardian,  how  could  I  object  to  your  writing 
anything  for  me  to  read  ?  " 

"  Then  see,  my  love,"  said  he,  with  his  cheery  smile  ; 
"  am  I  at  this  moment  quite  as  plain  and  easy — do  I  seem 
as  open,  as  honest  and  old-fashioned,  as  I  am  at  any  time  ?  " 

I  answered,  in  all  earnestness,  "  Quite."  With  the 
strictest  truth,  for  his  momentary  hesitation  was  gone  (it 
had  not  lasted  a  minute),  and  his  fine,  sensible,  cordial, 
manner  was  restored. 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  I  suppressed  anything,  meant  anything 
but  what  I  said,  had  any  reservation  at  all,  no  matter 
what  ?  "  said  he,  with  his  bright  clear  eyes  on  mine. 

I  answered  most  assuredly  he  did  not. 

"  Can  you  fully  trust  me,  and  thoroughly  rely  on  what  I 
profess,  Esther  ? " 

"  Most  thoroughly,"  said  I  with  my  whole  heart. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  returned  my  Guardian,  "  give  me  your 
hand." 

He  took  it  in  his,  holding  me  lightly  with  his  arm,  and, 
looking  down  into  my  face  with  the  same  genuine  fresh- 


Coyf>el, 


FLORE    ET    ZEPHIR 


A   Generous   Lover  209 

ness  and  faithfulness  of  manner — the  old  protecting  man- 
ner which  had  made  that  house  my  home  in  a  moment — 
said,  "  You  have  wrought  changes  in  me,  little  woman, 
since  the  winter  day  in  the  stage  coach.  First  and  last  you 
have  done  me  a  world  of  good,  since  that  time." 

"  Ah,  Guardian,  what  have  you  done  for  me  since  that 
time  !  " 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  that  is  not  to  be  remembered  now." 

"  It  never  can  be  forgotten." 

"Yes,  Esther,"  said  he  with  a  gentle  seriousness,  "it  is 
to  be  forgotten  now ;  to  be  forgotten  for  a  while.  You  are 
only  to  remember  now  that  nothing  can  change  me  as  you 
know  me.  Can  you  feel  quite  assured  of  that,  my  dear  ?  " 

"I  can,  and  I  do,"  I  said. 

"  That's  much,"  he  answered.  "  That's  everything. 
But  I  must  not  take  that,  at  a  word.  I  will  not  write  this 
something  in  my  thoughts,  until  you  have  quite  resolved 
within  yourself  that  nothing  can  change  me  as  you  know 
me.  If  you  doubt  that  in  the  least  degree  I  will  never 
write  it.  If  you  are  sure  of  that,  on  good  consideration, 
send  Charley  to  me  this  night  week — '  for  the  letter.'  But 
if  you  are  not  quite  certain,  never  send.  Mind,  I  trust  to 
your  truth,  in  this  thing  as  in  everything.  If  you  are  not 
quite  certain  on  that  one  point,  never  send  !  " 

"  Guardian,"  said  I,  "  I  am  already  certain.  I  can  no 
more  be  changed  in  that  conviction,  than  you  can  be 
changed  towards  me.  I  shall  send  Charley  for  the  letter." 

He  shook  my  hand  and  said  no  more.  Nor  was  any 
more  said  in  reference  to  this  conversation,  either  by  him  or 
me,  through  the  whole  week.  When  the  appointed  night 
came,  I  said  to  Charley  as  soon  as  I  was  alone,  "  Go  and 
knock  at  Mr.  Jarndyce's  door,  Charley,  and  say  you  have 
come  from  me — '  for  the  letter.' ':  Charley  went  up  the 
stairs,  and  down  the  stairs,  and  along  the  passages — the  zig- 
zag way  about  the  old-fashioned  house  seemed  very  long  in 
my  listening  ears  that  night — and  so  came  back,  along  the 
passages,  and  down  the  stairs,  and  up  the  stairs,  and  brought 
the  letter.  "  Lay  it  on  the  table,  Charley,"  said  I.  So 
Charley  laid  it  on  the  table  and  went  to  bed,  and  I  sat  look- 
ing at  it  without  taking  it  up,  thinking  of  many  things. 


210     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

I  began  with  my  overshadowed  childhood,  and  passed 
through  those  timid  days  to  the  heavy  time  when  my  aunt 
lay  dead,  with  her  resolute  face  so  cold  and  set;  and  when 
I  was  more  solitary  with  Mrs.  Rachael,  than  if  I  had  had 
no  one  in  the  world  to  speak  to  or  to  look  at.  I  passed  to 
the  altered  days  when  I  was  so  blest  as  to  find  friends  in  all 
around  me,  and  to  be  beloved.  I  came  to  the  time  when 
I  first  saw  my  dear  girl,  and  was  received  into  that  sisterly 
affection  which  was  the  grace  and  beauty  of  my  life.  I 
recalled  the  first  bright  gleam  of  welcome  which  had  shone 
out  of  those  very  windows  upon  our  expectant  faces  on 
that  cold  bright  night,  and  which  had  never  paled.  I  lived 
my  happy  life  there  over  again,  I  went  through  my  illness 
and  recovery,  I  thought  of  myself  so  altered  and  of  those 
around  me  so  unchanged ;  and  all  this  happiness  shone  like 
a  light,  from  one  central  figure,  represented  before  me  by 
the  letter  on  the  table. 

I  opened  it  and  read  it.  It  was  so  impressive  in  its  love 
for  me,  and  in  the  unselfish  caution  it  gave,  and  the  con- 
sideration it  showed  for  me  in  every  word,  that  my  eyes 
were  too  often  blinded  to  read  much  at  a  time.  But  I  read 
it  through  three  times,  before  I  laid  it  down.  I  had  thought 
beforehand  that  I  knew  its  purport,  and  I  did.  It  asked 
me  would  I  be  the  mistress  of  Bleak  House. 

It  was  not  a  love  letter  though  it  expressed  so  much  love, 
but  was  written  just  as  he  would  at  any  time  have  spoken 
to  me.  I  saw  his  face,  and  heard  his  voice,  and  felt  the  in- 
fluence of  his  kind  protecting  manner,  in  every  line.  It 
addressed  me  as  if  our  places  were  reversed  :  as  if  all  the 
good  deeds  had  been  mine,  and  all  the  feelings  they  had 
awakened,  his.  It  dwelt  on  my  being  young,  and  he  past 
the  prime  of  life ;  on  his  having  attained  a  ripe  age,  while 
I  was  a  child ;  on  his  writing  to  me  with  a  silvered  head, 
and  knowing  all  this  so  well  as  to  set  it  in  full  before  me 
for  mature  deliberation.  It  told  me  that  I  would  gain 
nothing  by  such  a  marriage,  and  lose  nothing  by  rejecting 
it;  for  no  new  relation  could  enhance  the  tenderness  in 
which  he  held  me,  and  whatever  my  decision  was,  he  was 
certain  it  would  be  right.  But  he  had  considered  this  step 
anew,  since  our  late  confidence,  and  had  decided  on  taking 


A   Generous   Lover  2 1 1 

it ;  if  it  only  served  to  show  me,  through  one  poor  in- 
stance, that  the  whole  world  would  readily  unite  to  falsify 
the  stern  prediction  of  my  childhood.  I  was  the  last  to 
know  what  happiness  I  could  bestow  upon  him,  but  of  that 
he  said  no  more ;  for  I  was  always  to  remember  that  I 
owed  him  nothing,  and  that  he  was  my  debtor,  and  for 
very  much.  He  had  often  thought  of  our  future  ;  and, 
foreseeing  that  the  time  must  come,  and  fearing  that  it 
might  come  soon,  when  Ada  (now  very  nearly  of  age) 
would  leave  us,  and  when  our  present  mode  of  life  must  be 
broken  up,  had  become  accustomed  to  reflect  on  this  pro- 
posal. Thus  he  made  it.  If  I  felt  that  I  could  ever  give 
him  the  best  right  he  could  have  to  be  my  protector,  and  if 
I  felt  that  I  could  happily  and  justly  become  the  dear  com- 
panion of  his  remaining  life,  superior  to  all  lighter  chances 
and  changes  than  death,  even  then  he  could  not  have  me 
bind  myself  irrevocably,  while  this  letter  was  yet  so  new  to 
me ;  but,  even  then,  I  must  have  ample  time  for  reconsid- 
eration. In  that  case,  or  in  the  opposite  case,  let  him  be 
unchanged  in  his  old  relation,  in  his  old  manner,  in  the  old 
name  by  which  I  called  him.  And  as  to  his  bright  Dame 
Durden  and  little  housekeeper,  she  would  ever  be  the  same, 
he  knew. 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  letter ;  written  throughout 
with  a  justice  and  a  dignity,  as  if  he  were  indeed  my  re- 
sponsible Guardian,  impartially  representing  the  proposal  of 
a  friend  against  whom  in  his  integrity  he  stated  the  full 
case. 

But  he  did  not  hint  to  me,  that  when  I  had  been  better- 
looking,  he  had  had  this  same  proceeding  in  his  thoughts, 
and  had  refrained  from  it.  That  when  my  old  face  was 
gone  from  me,  and  I  had  no  attractions,  he  could  love  me 
just  as  well  as  in  my  fairer  days.  That  the  discovery  of 
my  birth  gave  him  no  shock.  That  his  generosity  rose 
above  my  disfigurement,  and  my  inheritance  of  shame. 
That  the  more  I  stood  in  need  of  such  fidelity,  the  more 
firmly  I  might  trust  in  him  to  the  last. 

But  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it  well  now.  It  came  upon  me 
as  the  close  of  the  benignant  history  I  had  been  pursuing, 
and  I  felt  that  I  had  but  one  thing  to  do.  To  devote  my 


212     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

life  to  his  happiness  was  to  thank  him  poorly,  and  what  had 
I  wished  for  the  other  night  but  some  new  means  of  thank- 
ing him  ? 

Still  I  cried  very  much ;  not  only  in  the  fulness  of  my 
heart  after  reading  the  letter,  not  only  in  the  strangeness  of 
the  prospect — for  it  was  strange  though  I  had  expected  the 
contents — but  as  if  something  for  which  there  was  no  name 
or  distinct  idea  were  indefinitely  lost  to  me.  I  was  very 
happy,  very  thankful,  very  hopeful ;  but  I  cried  very  much. 

By  and  by  I  went  to  my  old  glass.  My  eyes  were  red 
and  swollen,  and  I  said,  "  O  Esther,  Esther,  can  that  be 
you  !  "  I  am  afraid  the  face  in  the  glass  was  going  to  cry 
again  at  this  reproach,  but  I  held  up  my  finger  at  it,  and  it 
stopped. 

"  That  is  more  like  the  composed  look  you  comforted  me 
with,  my  dear,  when  you  showed  me  such  a  change  !  "  said 
I,  beginning  to  let  down  my  hair.  "  When  you  are  mis- 
tress of  Bleak  House,  you  are  to  be  as  cheerful  as  a  bird. 
In  fact,  you  are  always  to  be  cheerful ;  so  let  us  begin  for 
once  and  for  all." 

I  went  on  with  my  hair  now,  quite  comfortably.  I 
sobbed  a  little  still,  but  that  was  because  I  had  been  crying; 
not  because  I  was  crying  then. 

"  And  so  Esther,  my  dear,  you  are  happy  for  life. 
Happy  with  your  best  friends,  happy  in  your  old  home, 
happy  in  the  power  of  doing  a  great  deal  of  good,  and 
happy  in  the  undeserved  love  of  the  best  of  men." 

I  thought,  all  at  once,  if  my  Guardian  had  married  some 
one  else,  how  should  I  have  felt,  and  what  should  I  have 
done  !  That  would  have  been  a  change  indeed.  It  pre- 
sented my  life  in  such  a  new  and  blank  form,  that  I  rang 
my  housekeeping  keys  and  gave  them  a  kiss  before  I  laid 
them  down  in  their  basket  again. 

Then  I  went  on  to  think,  as  I  dressed  my  hair  before  the 
glass,  how  often  had  I  considered  within  myself  that  the 
deep  traces  of  my  illness,  and  the  circumstances  of  my 
birth,  were  only  new  reasons  why  I  should  be  busy,  busy, 
busy — useful,  amiable,  serviceable,  in  all  honest  unpretend- 
ing ways.  This  was  a  good  time,  to  be  sure,  to  sit  down 
morbidly  and  cry  !  As  to  its  seeming  at  all  strange  to  me 


Generous   Lover  213 


at  first  (if  that  were  any  excuse  for  crying,  which  it  was 
not)  that  I  was  one  day  to  be  the  mistress  of  Bleak  House, 
why  should  it  seem  strange  ?  Other  people  had  thought  of 
such  things,  if  I  had  not.  "  Don't  you  remember,  my 
plain  dear,"  I  asked  myself,  looking  at  the  glass,  "  what 
Mrs.  Woodcourt  said  before  those  scars  were  there,  about 
your  marrying  -  " 

Perhaps  the  name  brought  them  to  my  remembrance. 
The  dried  remains  of  the  flowers.  It  would  be  better  not 
to  keep  them  now.  They  had  only  been  preserved  in 
memory  of  some  thing  wholly  past  and  gone,  but  it  would 
be  better  not  to  keep  them  now. 

They  were  in  a  book,  and  it  happened  to  be  in  the  next 
room  —  our  sitting-room,  dividing  Ada's  chamber  from 
mine.  I  took  a  candle,  and  went  softly  in  to  fetch  it  from 
its  shelf.  After  I  had  it  in  my  hand,  I  saw  my  beautiful 
darling,  through  the  open  door,  lying  asleep,  and  I  stole  in 
to  kiss  her. 

It  was  weak  in  me,  I  know,  and  I  could  have  no  reason 
for  crying  ;  but  I  dropped  a  tear  upon  her  dear  face,  and 
another,  and  another.  Weaker  than  that,  I  took  the  with- 
ered flowers  out,  and  put  them  for  a  moment  to  her  lips. 
I  thought  about  her  love  for  Richard  ;  though,  indeed,  the 
flowers  had  nothing  to  do  with  that.  Then  I  took  them 
into  my  own  room,  and  burned  them  at  the  candle,  and 
they  were  dust  in  an  instant. 

On  entering  the  breakfast-room  next  morning,  I  found 
my  Guardian  just  as  usual  ;  quite  as  frank,  as  open,  and 
free.  There  being  not  the  least  constraint  in  his  manner, 
there  was  none  (or  I  think  there  was  none)  in  mine.  I 
was  with  him  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  morning, 
in  and  out,  when  there  was  no  one  there  ;  and  I  thought  it 
not  unlikely  that  he  might  speak  to  me  about  the  letter  ; 
but  he  did  not  say  a  word. 

So,  on  the  next  morning,  and  the  next,  and  for  at  least  a 
week  ;  over  which  time  Mr.  Skimpole  prolonged  his  stay. 
I  expected,  every  day,  that  my  Guardian  might  speak  to  me 
about  the  letter  ;  but  he  never  did. 

I  thought  then,  growing  uneasy,  that  I  ought  to  write  an 


214     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

answer.  I  tried  over  and  over  again  in  my  own  room  at 
night,  but  I  could  not  write  an  answer  that  at  all  began  like 
a  good  answer;  so  I  thought  each  night  I  would  wait  one 
more  day.  And  I  waited  seven  more  days,  and  he  never 
said  a  word. 

At  last  Mr.  Skimpole  having  departed,  we  three  were  one 
afternoon  going  out  for  a  ride ;  and  I  being  dressed  before 
Ada,  and  going  down,  came  upon  my  Guardian,  with  his 
back  towards  me,  standing  at  the  drawing-room  window 
looking  out. 

He  turned  on  my  coming  in,  and  said,  smiling,  "  Ay,  it's 
you,  little  woman,  is  it  ?  "  and  looked  out  again. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  him  now.  In  short, 
I  had  come  down  on  purpose.  "  Guardian,"  I  said,  rather 
hesitating  and  trembling,  "  when  would  you  like  to  have 
the  answer  to  the  letter  Charley  came  for  ?  " 

"When  it's  ready,  my  dear,"  he  replied. 

"  I  think  it  is  ready,"  said  I. 

"  Is  Charley  to  bring  it  ?  "  he  asked,  pleasantly. 

"No.     I  have  brought  it  myself,  Guardian,"  I  returned. 

I  put  my  two  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  ;  and 
he  said  was  this  the  mistress  of  Bleak  House;  and  I  said 
yes;  and  it  made  no  difference  presently,  and  we  all  went 
out  together,  and  I  said  nothing  to  my  precious  pet  about  it. 

(Bleak  House ,  London, 


A    Lovers'   yourney  215 


A  LOVERS'  JOURNEY 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


Miss  Newcome  and  her  maid  entered  the 
Brighton  Station,  did  Mr.  Clive,  by  another  singu- 
lar coincidence,  happen  also  to  be  there  ?  What  more 
natural  and  dutiful  than  that  he  should  go  and  see  his  aunt, 
Miss  Honeyman  ?  What  more  proper  that  Miss  Ethel 
should  pass  the  Saturday  and  Sunday  with  her  sick  father; 
and  take  a  couple  of  wholesome  nights'  rest  after  those  five 
weary  past  evenings,  for  each  of  which  we  may  reckon  a 
couple  of  soirees  and  a  ball  ?  And  that  relations  should 
travel  together,  the  young  lady  being  protected  by  her 
femme  de  cbambre  ;  that  surely,  as  every  one  must  allow, 
was  perfectly  right  and  proper. 

That  a  biographer  should  profess  to  know  everything 
which  passes,  even  in  a  confidential  talk  in  a  first-class  car- 
riage between  two  lovers,  seems  perfectly  absurd  ;  not  that 
grave  historians  do  not  pretend  to  the  same  wonderful  de- 
gree of  knowledge  —  reporting  meetings  the  most  occult 
of  conspirators  ;  private  interviews  between  monarchs  and 
their  ministers,  even  the  secret  thoughts  and  motives  of 
those  personages,  which  possibly  the  persons  themselves 
did  not  know.  All  for  which  the  present  writer  will  pledge 
his  known  character  for  veracity  is,  that  on  a  certain  day 
certain  parties  had  a  conversation,  of  which  the  upshot  was 
so  and  so.  He  guesses,  of  course,  at  a  great  deal  of  what 
took  place  ;  knowing  the  characters,  and  being  informed  at 
some  time  of  their  meeting.  You  do  not  suppose  that  I 
bribed  the  femme  de  cbambre,  or  that  those  two  City  gents, 
who  sat  in  the  same  carriage  with  our  young  friends,  and 
could  not  hear  a  word  they  said,  reported  their  talk  to  me  ? 
If  Clive  and  Ethel  had  had  a  coupe  to  themselves,  I  would 
yet  boldly  tell  what  took  place,  but  the  coupe  was  taken  by 
three  young  City  gents,  who  smoked  the  whole  way. 

"  Well,  then,"   the   bonnet   begins   close  up  to  the  hat, 


216     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

"  tell  me,  sir,  is  it  true  that  you  were  so  very  much  eprls  of 
the  Miss  PYeemans  at  Rome ;  and  that  afterwards  you  were 
so  wonderfully  attentive  to  the  third  Miss  Balliol  ?  Did 
you  draw  her  portrait  ?  You  know  you  drew  her  portrait. 
You  painters  always  pretend  to  admire  girls  with  auburn 
hair,  because  Titian  and  Raphael  painted  it.  Has  the 
Fornarina  red  hair  ?  Why,  we  are  at  Croydon,  I  declare  !  " 

"The  Fornarina" — the  hat  replies  to  the  bonnet,  "if 
that  picture  at  the  Borghese  Palace  be  an  original,  or  a 
likeness  of  her — is  not  a  handsome  woman,  with  vulgar 
eyes  and  mouth,  and  altogether  a  most  mahogany-coloured 
person.  She  is  so  plain,  in  fact,  I  think  that  very  likely  it 
is  the  real  woman ;  for  it  is  with  their  own  fancies  that  men 
fall  in  love, — or  rather  every  woman  is  handsome  to  the 
lover.  You  know  how  old  Helen  must  have  been." 

"  I  don't  know  any  such  thing,  or  anything  about  her. 
Who  was  Helen  ?  "  asked  the  bonnet.  And  indeed  she 
did  not  know. 

"  It's  a  long  story,  and  such  an  old  scandal  now,  that 
there  is  no  use  in  repeating  it,"  says  Clive. 

"  You  only  talk  about  Helen  because  you  wish  to  turn 
away  the  conversation  from  Miss  Freeman,"  cries  the 
young  lady — "  from  Miss  Balliol,  I  mean." 

"We  will  talk  about  whichever  you  please.  Which 
shall  we  begin  to  pull  to  pieces  ?  "  says  Clive.  You  see, 
to  be  in  this  carriage — to  be  actually  with  her — to  be  look- 
ing into  those  wonderful  lucid  eyes — to  see  her  sweet 
mouth  dimpling,  and  hear  her  sweet  voice  ringing  with  its 
sweet  delicious  laughter — to  have  that  hour  and  a  half  his 
own  in  spite  of  all  the  world  dragons,  grandmothers,  con- 
venances, the  future — made  the  young  fellow  so  happy, 
filled  his  whole  frame  and  spirit  with  a  delight  so  keen,  that 
no  wonder  he  was  gay,  and  brisk,  and  lively. 

"And  so  you  know  of  my  goings  on  ?  "  he  asked.  Oh 
me  !  they  were  at  Reigate  by  this  time ;  there  was  Gatton 
Park  flying  before  them  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

"  I  know  of  a  number  of  things,"  says  the  bonnet, 
nodding  with  ambrosial  curls. 

"  And  you  would  not  answer  the  second  letter  I  wrote 
to  you  ?  " 


A   Lovers'    yourney  217 

"  We  were  in  great  perplexity.  One  cannot  be  always 
answering  young  gentleman's  letters.  I  had  considerable 
doubt  about  answering  a  note  I  got  from  Charlotte  Street, 
Fitzroy  Square,"  says  the  lady's  chapeau.  "  No,  Clive,  we 
must  not  write  to  one  another,"  she  continued  more  gravely, 
"  or  only  very,  very  seldom.  Nay,  my  meeting  with  you 
here  to-day  is  by  the  merest  chance,  I  am  sure ;  for  when 
I  mentioned  at  Lady  Fareham's  the  other  evening  that  I 
was  going  to  see  papa  at  Brighton  to-day,  I  never  for  one 
moment  thought  of  seeing  you  in  the  train.  But  as  you  are 
here,  it  can't  be  helped  5  and  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that 
there  are  obstacles." 

"  What  other  obstacles  ?  "   Clive  gasped  out. 

"  Nonsense— you  silly  boy  ! — No  other  obstacles  but 
those  which  always  have  existed  and  must.  When  we 
parted — that  is,  when  you  left  us  at  Baden,  you  knew  it 
was  for  the  best.  You  had  your  profession  to  follow,  and 
could  not  go  on  idling  about — about  a  family  of  sick  people 
and  children.  Every  man  has  his  profession,  and  you  yours, 
as  you  would  have  it.  We  are  so  nearly  allied  that  we 
may — we  may  like  each  other  like  brother  and  sister  al- 
most. I  don't  know  what  Barnes  would  say  if  he  heard 
me.  Wherever  you  and  your  father  are,  how  can  I  ever 
think  of  you  but — but  you  know  how  ?  I  always  shall, 
always.  There  are  certain  feelings  we  have  which  I  hope 
can  never  change;  though,  if  you  please,  about  them  I 
never  intend  to  speak  any  more.  Neither  you  nor  I  can 
alter  our  conditions,  but  must  make  the  best  of  them. 
You  shall  be  a  fine  clever  painter;  and  I, — who  knows 
what  will  happen  to  me  ?  I  know  what  is  going  to  hap- 
pen to-day  ;  I  am  going  to  see  papa  and  mamma,  and  be  as 
happy  as  I  can  till  Monday  morning." 

"  I  know  what  I  wish  would  happen  now,"  said  Clive, 
— they  were  going  screaming  through  a  tunnel. 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  bonnet  in  the  darkness ;  and  the 
engine  was  roaring  so  loudly,  that  he  was  obliged  to  put  his 
head  quite  close  to  say  — 

"  I  wish  the  tunnel  would  fall  in  and  close  upon  us,  or 
that  we  might  travel  on  forever  and  ever." 

Here  there  was  a  great  jar  of  the  carriage,  and  the  lady's- 


218     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

maid,  and  I  think  Miss  Ethel,  gave  a  shriek.  The  lamp 
above  was  so  dim  that  the  carriage  was  almost  totally  dark. 
No  wonder  the  lady's-maid  was  frightened  !  but  the  day- 
light came  streaming  in,  and  all  poor  Clive's  wishes  of 
rolling  and  rolling  on  forever  were  put  an  end  to  by  the 
implacable  sun  in  a  minute. 

Ah,  why  was  it  the  quick  train  ? — Suppose  it  had  been 
the  parliamentary  train  ? — even  that  too  would  have 
come  to  an  end.  They  came  and  said,  "Tickets, 
please,"  and  Clive  held  out  the  three  of  their  party — his, 
and  Ethel's,  and  her  maid's.  I  think  for  such  a  ride  as 
that  he  was  right  to  give  up  Greenwich.  Mr.  Kuhn  was 
in  waiting  with  a  carriage  for  Miss  Ethel.  She  shook 
hands  with  Clive,  returning  his  pressure. 

" 1  may  come  and  see  you  ?  "  he  said. 

41  You  may  come  and  see  mamma — yes." 

"And  where  are  you  staying  ?  " 

"Bless  my  soul — they  were  staying  at  Miss  Honey- 
man's  !  "  Clive  burst  into  a  laugh.  Why,  he  was  going  there 
too  !  Of  course  Aunt  Honeyman  had  no  room  for  him, 
her  house  being  quite  full  with  the  other  Newcomes. 

It  was  a  most  curious  coincidence  their  meeting ;  but  al- 
together Lady  Ann  thought  it  was  best  to  say  nothing  about 
the  circumstance  to  grandmamma.  I  myself  am  puzzled 
to  say  which  would  have  been  the  better  course  to  pursue 
under  the  circumstances ;  there  were  so  many  courses  open. 
As  they  had  gone  so  far,  should  they  go  on  farther  together  ? 
Suppose  they  were  going  to  the  same  house  at  Brighton, 
oughtn't  they  to  have  gone  in  the  same  carriage,  with  Kuhn 
and  the  maid,  of  course  ?  Suppose  they  met  by  chance  at 
the  station,  ought  they  to  have  travelled  in  separate  car- 
riages ?  I  ask  any  gentleman  and  father  of  a  family,  when 
he  was  immensely  smitten  with  his  present  wife,  Mrs. 
Brown,  if  he  had  met  her  travelling  with  her  maid,  in  the 
mail,  when  there  was  a  vacant  place,  what  would  he  him- 
self have  done  ? 

(The  Newcomes,  London,  1855?) 


The    Torments  of  Desire         219 
THE  TORMENTS  OF  DESIRE 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

T)HARAOH,  disturbed  and  enraged  at  Tahoser's  disap- 
pearance,  had  yielded  to  that  need  of  moving  about 
that  agitates  the  heart  that  is  tormented  by  an  unsatisfied 
passion.  To  the  great  chagrin  of  his  favourites,  Amense, 
Hont  Reche  and  Twea,  who  did  their  utmost  to  keep  him 
in  the  summer  pavilion  by  every  resource  of  female  co- 
quetry, he  took  up  his  abode  in  the  Northern  Palace  on  the 
other  bank  of  the  Nile.  His  savage  preoccupation  was 
aggravated  by  the  presence  and  chatter  of  women.  Every- 
thing that  was  not  Tahoser  displeased  him ;  those  beauties 
who  formerly  appeared  so  charming  to  him  he  now  found 
ugly.  Their  youthful,  supple  and  graceful  bodies  that  as- 
sumed such  voluptuous  attitudes  ;  their  eyes  elongated  with 
antimony  and  gleaming  with  desire  ;  their  crimson  lips  with 
white  teeth  and  languishing  smiles :  everything  about 
them,  even  to  the  sweet  perfumes  exhaled  by  their  flesh  as 
fresh  as  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  or  a  box  of  aromatics,  had 
become  hateful  and  intolerable  to  him.  He  seemed  to  have 
a  grievance  against  them  for  having  loved  them,  and  to  be 
no  longer  able  to  understand  how  he  could  have  been  at- 
tracted by  such  vulgar  charms.  When  Twea  laid  the  rosy 
and  tapering  fingers  of  her  little  hand  that  trembled  with 
emotion  upon  his  breast,  as  if  to  give  new  birth  to  the 
memory  of  past  familiarity ;  when  Hont  Reche  pushed  in 
front  of  him  the  chess-board  supported  by  two  lions  back 
to  back,  to  induce  him  to  play  a  game  with  her;  or  when 
Amense  offered  him  a  flower  with  respectful  and  suppliant 
grace,  he  could  scarcely  restrain  himself  from  striking  them 
with  his  sceptre,  and  his  eagle  eyes  darted  such  lightnings 
of  disdain  that  the  poor  women  who  had  ventured  to  be  so 
bold  retired  overwhelmed,  with  eyelids  wet  with  tears,  and 
leaned  in  silence  against  the  painted  wall,  seeking  by  their 
immobility  to  have  their  forms  confounded  with  those  of 
the  frescoes. 


220     Love   in    Literature  and  ^4rt 

In  order  to  escape  from  these  scenes  of  tears  and  vio- 
lence, he  had  retired  to  the  Theban  palace,  alone,  taciturn 
and  savage ;  and  there,  instead  of  remaining  seated  upon 
his  throne  in  the  solemn  attitude  of  the  gods  and  kings, 
who,  having  all  power,  do  not  move  nor  gesticulate,  he 
feverishly  strode  up  and  down  the  immense  halls. 

It  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  this  Pharaoh  of  lofty  stat- 
ure and  imposing  carriage,  as  formidable  as  his  images,  the 
granite  colossi,  making  the  stones  resound  beneath  his 
curved  sandals.  As  he  passed  by,  the  terrified  guards 
seemed  to  crystallize  into  statues  ;  they  held  their  breath, 
and  even  the  double  ostrich-plume  of  their  helmet  ceased 
to  wave.  When  he  had  gone,  they  scarcely  dared  to 
whisper  to  one  another:  "What  ails  Pharaoh  to-day  ?  If 
he  had  returned  in  defeat  from  his  expedition,  he  could  not 
be  more  sombre  and  morose." 

The  fortune  of  battle  is  changeable,  a  disaster  may  be 
repaired ;  but  after  having  formed  a  wish  that  was  not  im- 
mediately fulfilled,  having  met  with  an  obstacle  between  his 
will  and  its  realization,  and  having  cast  a  desire  like  a 
javelin  that  had  not  struck  the  mark : — this  was  what  as- 
tonished this  Pharaoh  in  the  higher  zones  of  his  omnipo- 
tence !  For  a  moment  he  had  an  idea  that  he  was  only  a 
man  ! 

Therefore  he  strode  through  the  vast  courts  of  gigantic 
columns,  under  enormous  pylons,  and  between  obelisks  and 
colossi  that  gazed  at  him  with  great  wondering  eyes.  A 
peculiar  vitality  seemed  to  animate  the  strange  images. 
These  gods,  these  ancestors,  these  chimerical  monsters,  in 
their  eternal  immobility,  were  surprised  to  see  the  Pharaoh, 
ordinarily  as  calm  as  themselves,  striding  to  and  fro  as  if 
his  limbs  were  of  flesh  and  not  of  porphyry  or  basalt. 

Tired  of  walking  in  this  monstrous  forest  of  columns 
supporting  a  granite  sky,  Pharaoh  at  last  ascended  to  a  ter- 
race of  the  palace,  and  sent  for  Timopht. 

On  bended  knee,  Timopht  stretched  out  his  arms  to- 
wards the  king  with  a  supplicating  gesture  and  cried  :  "  O 
king,  do  not  have  me  slain  nor  unmercifully  beaten  :  the 
beautiful  Tahoser  will  doubtless  be  found  and  come  to  take 
the  place  you  will  assign  her." 


T/ie    Torments  of  Desire         221 

"  Have  you  questioned  her  servants  and  slaves  ?  The 
stick  loosens  the  most  rebellious  tongues  !  " 

"  Her  favourite  maid  and  her  oldest  servant  told  me  that 
the  bolts  of  her  garden  door  were  drawn,  and  probably  she 
had  gone  out  that  way.  The  door  opens  on  the  river." 

u  What  say  the  Nile  boatmen  ?  " 

"  They  had  seen  nothing :  one  only  says  that  a  poorly- 
clad  woman  crossed  the  river  in  the  early  dawn.  But  that 
could  not  be  the  beautiful  and  rich  Tahoser." 

Timopht's  reasoning  did  not  seem  to  convince  Pharaoh. 
His  lips  moved  as  if  talking  to  himself.  "  Perhaps  there 
is  some  love  affair  at  the  bottom  of  this  mystery  !  " 

At  this  idea,  Pharaoh's  face  flushed  like  the  glow  of  a 
conflagration  and  a  dreadful  pallor  followed,  his  brows  rose 
like  the  viper  on  his  diadem  and  his  features  became  so  ter- 
rible that  Timopht  fell  upon  his  face  like  a  dead  man. 

But  Pharaoh  controlled  himself;  his  features  recovered 
their  majestic,  placid  and  wearied  expression,  and  he  con- 
temptuously pushed  Timopht  with  his  foot,  saying  : 

"  Get  up,  Timopht,  hurry  and  send  forth  emissaries  in 
every  direction,  let  them  search  the  temples,  palaces,  houses, 
villas,  and  gardens  down  to  the  humblest  huts  and  find 
Tahoser ;  send  cars  over  every  road,  have  the  Nile  fur- 
rowed with  boats  ;  go  yourself  and  ask  everybody  you  meet 
if  they  have  seen  a  woman  answering  to  her  description  ; 
violate  the  tombs  if  she  has  taken  refuge  in  the  asylum  of 
the  dead,  or  in  the  depths  of  some  syringe  or  hypogeum  ; 
seek  her  as  Isis  sought  for  her  spouse  Osiris  torn  away  by 
Typhon,  and,  dead  or  alive,  bring  her  here,  or  by  the 
uraeus  on  my  pschent,  by  the  lotus-bud  on  my  sceptre,  you 
shall  perish  under  frightful  tortures  !  " 

Timopht  sped  away  as  swiftly  as  the  ibex  to  execute  the 
commands  of  Pharaoh  who  serenely  assumed  one  of  those 
attitudes  of  tranquil  grandeur  that  the  sculptors  love  to  give 
to  the  colossi  seated  at  the  doors  of  the  temples  and  palaces  ; 
and,  calm  as  is  meet  for  those  whose  sandals  rest  on  the 
necks  of  nations,  he  waited. 

Dull  thunder  sounded  around  the  palace ;  it  was  the 
noise  of  chariots  starting  at  a  gallop  in  every  direction. 
Pharaoh  from  his  elevated  terrace  could  soon  see  the  boats 


222     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

cleaving  the  river  waters  under  the  efforts  of  their  rowers, 
and  emissaries  spreading  through  the  country  on  the  op- 
posite bank. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  :  the  sun  had  already  disap- 
peared behind  the  mountains,  bathing  Thebes  in  its  last 
glow,  and  the  messengers  had  not  returned.  Pharaoh  still 
maintained  his  motionless  attitude.  Night  spread  over  the 
city,  calm  and  fresh  and  blue,  the  stars  scintillated  in  the 
azure  depths,  and  on  the  terrace  the  black  contours  of 
Pharaoh  stood  out  silent  and  impassive  like  a  statue  of 
basalt  set  on  the  entablature.  Several  times  the  nocturnal 
birds  hovered  about  his  head  to  settle  upon  it,  but,  scared 
by  his  slow  and  deep  respiration,  they  flapped  their  wings 
and  flew  away. 

Letting  his  eyes  and  thoughts  wander  over  the  immense 
city  of  which  he  was  the  absolute  master,  Pharaoh  reflected 
sadly  on  the  limits  of  human  power,  and  his  desire,  like  a 
famished  vulture,  tore  at  his  heart ;  he  said  to  himself : 
"  All  these  houses  contain  beings  who  bow  their  heads  in 
the  dust  at  my  appearance,  and  to  whom  my  will  is  an 
order  of  the  gods.  When  I  mount  my  golden  chariot,  or 
my  litter  borne  by  the  Oeris,  the  virgins  feel  their  bosoms 
palpitate  as  they  follow  me  with  long  timid  glances ;  the 
priests  surround  me  with  the  smoke  of  incense  ;  the  people 
wave  palms  or  scatter  flowers  before  me  ;  the  hiss  of  one 
of  my  arrows  makes  the  nations  tremble ;  and  the  walls  of 
the  mountainous  pylons  scarcely  suffice  for  the  inscription 
of  my  victories  ;  the  quarries  are  exhausted  in  furnishing 
granite  for  my  colossal  images;  and  once,  in  my  superb 
satiety,  I  form  a  wish,  and  cannot  accomplish  it !  Timopht 
does  not  come :  doubtless  he  has  failed.  O  Tahoser, 
Tahoser,  how  much  happiness  you  owe  me  for  this  long 
waiting  !  " 

Meanwhile  the  emissaries,  headed  by  Timopht  visited 
the  houses,  searched  the  ways  and  made  inquiries  for  the 
priest's  daughter.  But  nobody  could  give  them  any  in- 
formation. 

The  first  messenger  arrived  to  tell  Pharaoh  that  Tahoser 
could  not  be  found.  Pharaoh  wielded  his  sceptre  and  the 
messenger  fell  dead.  A  second  presented  himself:  he 


The    Torments  of  Desire         223 

stumbled  over  his  comrade's  body  and  trembled,  for  he  saw 
that  the  Pharaoh  was  enraged. 

"  And  Tahoser  ?  "  asked  Pharaoh  without  changing  his 
position. 

"  O  Majesty  !  all  trace  of  her  is  lost,"  replied  the  un- 
fortunate man  kneeling  in  the  darkness  before  this  black 
shadow  that  resembled  an  Osirian  statue  more  than  a  living 
king. 

The  granite  arm  separated  from  the  motionless  trunk 
and  the  metal  sceptre  fell  like  a  stroke  of  lightning.  The 
second  messenger  rolled  over  beside  the  first. 

A  third  met  with  the  same  fate. 

Pharaoh  muttered  to  himself:  "  I  will  find  her  even  if  I 
have  to  turn  Egypt  upside  down  from  the  cataracts  to  the 
Delta." 

(Le  Roman  de  la  Momte,  Paris^  1856.} 


224     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


AN  UNWELCOME  SUITOR 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

through  the  Plymouth  woods,  John  Alden  went  on 

his  errand  ; 

Crossing  the  brook  at  the  ford,  where  it  brawled  over  peb- 
ble and  shallow, 
Gathering  still  as  he  went,  the  May-flower  blooming  around 

him, 
Fragrant,   filling    the    air    with    a   strange   and  wonderful 

sweetness, 
Children   lost   in   the  woods,  and   covered  with   leaves   in 

their  slumber. 
"  Puritan    flowers,"   he    said,   "  and   the   type   of    Puritan 

maidens, 

Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  the  very  type  of  Priscilla  ! 
So  I  will  take  them  to  her  ;  to  Priscilla  the  May-flower  of 

Plymouth, 
Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  as  a  parting  gift  will  I  take 

them  ; 
Breathing  their  silent  farewells,  as  they  fade  and  wither  and 

perish, 

Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of  the  giver." 
So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  went  on  his 

errand. 

Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saw  the  disk  of  the  ocean, 
Sailless,  sombre  and  cold  with  the  comfortless  breath  of  the 

east  wind  ; 

Saw  the  new-built  house,  and  people  at  work  in  a  meadow  ; 
Heard,  as   he   drew   near  the   door,  the   musical   voice   of 

Priscilla 

Singing   the  hundredth   Psalm,  the  grand   old   Puritan  an- 
them, 
Music    that    Luther    sang    to    the    sacred    words  of    the 

Psalmist, 
Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling  and  comforting 

many. 


An    Unwelcome   Suitor          225 

Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the  form  of  the 
maiden 

Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded  wool  like  a  snow- 
drift 

Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding  the  ravenous 
spindle, 

While  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle  she  guided  the  wheel  in 
its  motion. 

if.  -if.  -if.  -if.  -if.  -if. 

So  he  entered  the  house  :  and  the  hum  of  the  wheel  and 

singing 
Suddenly  ceased ;  for  Priscilla,  aroused  by  his  step  on  the 

threshold, 
Rose  as  he  entered,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  in  signal  of 

welcome, 
Saying,  "  I  knew  it  was  you,  when  I  heard  your  step  in  the 

passage ; 

For  I  was  thinking  of  you,  as  I  sat  there  singing  and  spin- 
ning." 
Awkward  and  dumb  with  delight,  that  a  thought  of  him 

had  been  mingled 
Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from  the  heart  of  the 

maiden, 
Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her  the  flowers  for  an 

answer. 


Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the  birds  and  the  beauti- 
ful springtime, 

Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and  the  May  Flower  that 
sailed  on  the  morrow. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  all  day,"  said  gently  the  Puritan 
maiden, 

"  Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day,  of  the  hedge- 
rows of  England, — 

They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country  is  all  like  a 
garden ; 

Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song  of  the  lark  and 
the  linnet, 


226     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Seeing  the  village  street,  and  familiar  faces  of  neighbours 

Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gossip  together, 

And,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village  church,  with  the 
ivy 

Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet  graves  in  the 
churchyard. 

Kind  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear  to  me  my  re- 
ligion ; 

Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I  wish  myself  back  in  Old 
England. 

You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I  cannot  help  it :  I  almost 

Wish  myself  back  in  Old  England,  I  feel  so  lonely  and 
wretched." 

Thereupon  answered  the  youth  : — "  Indeed  I  do  not  con- 
demn you  ; 

Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have  quailed  in  this  terrible 
winter, 

Yours  is  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs  a  stronger  to  lean  on  ; 

So  I  have  come  to  you  now,  with  an  offer  and  proffer  of 
marriage 

Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles  Standish  the  Captain 
of  Plymouth !  " 

Thus  he   delivered    his   message,  the  dexterous  writer  of 

letters, — 
Did    not  embellish    the   theme,   nor    array  it  in  beautiful 

phrases, 
But  came   straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted  it  out  like  a 

schoolboy  ; 
Even  the   Captain   himself  could   hardly  have  said  it  more 

bluntly. 
Mute   with   amazement   and  sorrow,  Priscilla  the  Puritan 

maiden 

Looked  into  Alden's  face,  her  eyes  dilated  with  wonder, 
Feeling  his  words  like   a  blow,  that  stunned  her  and  ren- 
dered her  speechless ; 
"  If  the  great  Captain  of  Plymouth  is  so  very  eager  to  wed 

me, 
Why  does   he   not  come  himself,  and  take  the  trouble  to 

woo  me  ? 


An    Unwelcome   Suitor          227 

If  I  am   not  worth  the  wooing,  I  surely  am  not  worth  the 

winning  !  " 

John  Alden  began  explaining  and  smoothing  the  matter, 
Making   it  worse  as  he  went,  by  saying  the  Captain  was 

busy, — 
Had   no  time   for  such   things  ; — such  things  !    the  words 

grating  harshly 
Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla;  and  swift  as  a  flash  she  made 

answer : 
"  Has  he  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you  call  it,  before  he 

is  married, 

Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it,  after  the  wedding  ? 
That  is  the  way  with  you  men  ;  you  don't  understand  us, 

you  cannot. 
When  you   have   made   up  your  minds,  after  thinking  of 

this  one  and  that  one, 

Choosing,  selecting,  rejecting,  comparing  one  with  another, 
Then  you  make  known   your  desire,  with  abrupt  and  sud- 
den avowal, 
And   are   offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant  perhaps,  that  a 

woman 

Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a  love  that  she  never  suspected, 
Does   not   attain  at  a  bound  the  height  to  which  you  have 

been  climbing. 

That  is  not  right  nor  just :  for  surely  a  woman's  affection 
Is  not  a  thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had  only  for  the  asking. 
When  one  is  truly  in  love,  one  not  only  says  it,  but  shows  it. 
Had  he  but  waited  awhile,  had  he  only  showed  that  he  loved 

me, 
Even  this  Captain   of  yours — who  knows? — at  last  might 

have  won  me, 
Old  and  rough  as  he  is;  but  now  it  never  can  happen." 

Still  John  Alden  went  on  unheeding  the  words  of  Priscilla, 

Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining,  persuading,  ex- 
plaining •, 

Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all  his  battles  in 
Flanders, 

How  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chosen  to  suffer  afflic- 
tion, 


228     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had  made  him  Captain  of 
Plymouth ; 

He  was  a  gentleman  born,  could  trace  his  pedigree  plainly 

Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall,  in  Lancashire, 
England, 

Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grandson  of  Thurston 
de  Standish  ; 

Heir  unto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was  basely  defrauded, 

Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for  his  crest  a  cock 
argent 

Combed  and  wattled  with  gules,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  blazon. 

He  was  a  man  of  honour,  of  noble  and  generous  nature  ; 

Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly ;  she  knew  how  dur- 
ing the  winter 

He  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a  hand  as  gentle  as  woman's ; 

Somewhat  hasty  and  hot,  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  head- 
strong, 

Stern  as  a  soldier  might  be,  but  hearty,  and  placable  always, 

Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because  he  was  little  of 
stature ; 

For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous,  courtly,  cou- 
rageous ; 

Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman  in  England, 

Might  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called  the  wife  of  Miles 
Standish ! 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple  and  eloquent 

language, 

Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise  of  his  rival, 
Archly,  the   maiden  smiled,   and,  with  eyes   over-running 

with  laughter, 
Said,   in  a  tremulous   voice,  "  Why  don't  you   speak  for 

yourself,  John  ? " 

( The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standisb,  Boston,  1858.) 


A  Love  Idyll  229 


A  LOVE  IDYLL 

GEORGE  MEREDITH 

A  WAY  with  Systems  !  Away  with  a  corrupt  World ! 
•^^  Let  us  breathe  the  air  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 

Golden  lie  the  meadows ;  golden  run  the  streams ;  gold 
is  on  the  pine-stems.  The  sun  is  coming  down  to  earth, 
and  walks  the  fields  and  the  waters. 

The  sun  is  coming  down  to  earth,  and  the  fields  and  the 
waters  shout  to  him  golden  shouts.  He  comes,  and  his 
heralds  run  before  him,  and  touch  the  leaves  of  oaks  and 
planes  and  beeches  lucid  green,  and  the  pine-stems  redder 
gold ;  leaving  brightest  footprints  upon  thickly-weeded 
banks,  where  the  foxglove's  last  upper  bells  incline,  and 
bramble-shoots  wander  amid  moist  herbage.  The  plumes 
of  the  woodland  are  alight ;  and  beyond  them,  over  the 
open,  'tis  a  race  with  the  long  thrown  shadows;  a  race 
across  the  heaths  and  up  the  hills,  till,  at  the  farthest  bourne 
of  mounted  eastern  cloud,  the  heralds  of  the  sun  lay  rosy 
fingers,  and  rest. 

Sweet  are  the  shy  recesses  of  the  woodland.  The  ray 
treads  softly  there.  A  film  athwart  the  pathway  quivers 
many-hued  against  purple  shade  fragrant  with  warm  pines, 
deep  moss-beds,  feathery  ferns.  The  little  brown  squirrel 
drops  tail,  and  leaps ;  the  inmost  bird  is  startled  to  a  chance 
tuneless  note.  From  silence  into  silence  things  move. 

Peeps  of  the  revelling  splendour  above  and  around  en- 
liven the  conscious  full  heart  within.  The  flaming  West, 
the  crimson  heights,  shower  their  glories  through  volumi- 
nous leafage.  But  these  are  bowers  where  deep  bliss 
dwells,  imperial  joy,  that  owes  no  fealty  to  yonder  glories, 
in  which  the  young  lamb  gambols  and  the  spirits  of  men 
are  glad.  Descend,  great  Radiance !  embrace  creation 
with  beneficent  fire,  and  pass  from  us  !  You  and  the  vice- 
regal light  that  succeeds  to  you,  and  all  heavenly  pageants, 
are  the  ministers  and  the  slaves  of  the  throbbing  content 
within. 


230     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

For  this  is  the  home  of  the  'enchantment.  Here,  se- 
cluded from  vexed  shores,  the  prince  and  princess  of  the 
island  meet :  here  like  darkling  nightingales  they  sit,  and 
into  eyes  and  ears  and  hands  pour  endless  ever-fresh  treas- 
ures of  their  souls. 

Roll  on,  grinding  wheels  of  the  world :  cries  of  ships 
going  down  in  a  calm,  groans  of  a  System  which  will  not 
know  its  rightful  hour  of  exultation,  complain  to  the  uni- 
verse. You  are  not  heard  here. 

He  calls  her  by  her  name,  Lucy  :  and  she,  blushing  at 
her  great  boldness  has  called  him  by  his,  Richard.  Those 
two  names  are  the  key-notes  of  the  wonderful  harmonies 
the  angels  sing  aloft. 

"  Lucy  !  my  beloved  !  " 

"  O  Richard  !  " 

Out  in  the  world  there,  on  the  skirts  of  the  woodland,  a 
sheep-boy  pipes  to  meditative  eve  on  a  penny-whistle. 

Love's  musical  instrument  is  as  old  and  as  poor:  it  has 
but  two  stops ;  and  yet,  you  see,  the  cunning  musician 
does  this  much  with  it ! 

Other  speech  they  have  little;  light  foam  playing  upon 
waves  of  feeling,  and  of  feeling  compact,  that  bursts  only 
when  the  sweeping  volume  is  too  wild,  and  is  no  more  than 
their  sigh  of  tenderness  spoken. 

Perhaps  love  played  his  tune  so  well  because  their  natures 
had  unblunted  edges,  and  were  keen  for  bliss,  confiding  in 
it  as  natural  food.  To  gentlemen  and  ladies  he  fine-draws 
upon  the  viol,  ravishingly ;  or  blows  into  the  mellow  bas- 
soon ;  or  rouses  the  heroic  ardours  of  the  trumpet ;  or,  it 
may  be,  commands  the  whole  Orchestra  for  them.  And 
they  are  pleased.  He  is  still  the  cunning  musician.  They 
languish,  and  taste  ecstasy  :  but  it  is,  however  sonorous,  an 
earthly  concert.  For  them  the  spheres  move  not  to  two 
notes.  They  have  lost,  or  forfeited  and  never  known,  the 
first  supersensual  spring  of  the  ripe  senses  into  passion ; 
when  they  carry  the  soul  with  them,  and  have  the  privileges 
of  spirits  to  walk  disembodied,  boundlessly  to  feel.  Or  one 
has  it,  and  the  other  is  a  dead  body.  Ambrosia  let  them 
eat,  and  drink  the  nectar  :  here  sit  a  couple  to  whom  Love's 
simple  bread  and  water  is  a  fine  feast. 


A  Love  Idyl!  231 


Pipe,  happy  sheep-boy,  Love  !  Irradiated  angels,  unfold 
your  wings  and  lift  your  voices  ! 

They  have  outflown  philosophy.  Their  instinct  has  shot 
beyond  the  ken  of  science.  They  were  made  for  their 
Eden. 

"  And  this  divine  gift  was  in  store  for  me  ! " 

So  runs  the  internal  outcry  of  each,  clasping  each  :  it  is 
their  recurring  refrain  to  the  harmonies.  How  it  illumined 
the  years  gone  by  and  suffused  the  living  Future  ! 

"  You  for  me  :  I  for  you  !  " 

"  We  were  born  for  each  other !  " 

They  believe  that  the  angels  have  been  busy  about  them 
from  their  cradles.  The  celestial  hosts  have  worthily 
striven  to  bring  them  together.  And  O  victory  !  O  won- 
der !  after  toil  and  pain,  and  difficulties  exceeding  the  ce- 
lestial hosts  have  succeeded. 

"  Here  we  two  sit  who  are  written  above  as  one  !  " 

Pipe,  happy  Love  !   pipe  on  to  these  dear  innocents. 

The  tide  of  colour  has  ebbed  from  the  upper  sky.  In 
the  West  the  sea  of  sunken  fire  draws  back ;  and  the  stars 
leap  forth,  and  tremble,  and  retire  before  the  advancing 
moon,  who  slips  the  silver  train  of  cloud  from  her  shoul- 
ders, and  with  her  foot  upon  the  pine-tops,  surveys  heaven. 

"  Lucy,  did  you  never  dream  of  meeting  me  ?  " 

"  O  Richard  !  yes  ;  for  I  remembered  you." 

"  Lucy  !  and  did  you  pray  that  we  might  meet  ?  " 

"  I  did  !  " 

Young  as  when  she  looked  upon  the  lovers  in  Paradise, 
the  fair  Immortal  journeys  onward.  Fronting  her,  it  is  not 
night  but  veiled  day.  Full  half  the  sky  is  flushed.  Not 
darkness  :  not  day ;  but  the  nuptials  of  the  two. 

"  My  own  !  my  own  forever  !  You  are  pledged  to  me  ? 
Whisper!  " 

He  hears  the  delicious  music. 

"And  you  are  mine  ?  " 

A  soft  beam  travels  to  the  fern-covert  under  the  pine- 
wood  where  they  sit,  and  for  answer  he  has  her  eyes : 
turned  to  him  an  instant,  timidly  fluttering  over  the  depths 
of  his,  and  then  downcast ;  for  through  her  eyes  her  soul 
is  naked  to  him. 


232     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

"  Lucy  !  my  bride  !   my  life  !  " 

The  night-jar  spins  his  dark  monotony  on  the  branch  of 
the  pine.  The  soft  beam  travels  round  them,  and  listens 
to  their  hearts.  Their  lips  are  locked. 

Pipe  no  more,  Love,  for  a  time  !  Pipe  as  you  will  you 
cannot  express  their  first  kiss ;  nothing  of  its  sweetness, 
and  of  the  sacredness  of  it,  nothing.  St.  Cecilia  u'p  aloft, 
before  the  silver  organ-pipes  of  Paradise,  pressing  fingers 
upon  all  the  notes  of  which  Love  is  but  one,  from  her  you 
may  hear  it. 

So  Love  is  silent.  Out  in  the  world  there,  on  the  skirts 
of  the  woodland,  the  self-satisfied  sheep-boy  delivers  a  last 
complacent  squint  down  the  length  of  his  penny-whistle, 
and,  with  a  flourish  correspondingly  awry,  he  also  marches 
into  silence,  hailed  by  supper.  The  woods  are  still. 
There  is  heard  but  the  night-jar  spinning  on  the  pine- 
branch,  circled  by  moonlight. 

(  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,  London, 


The   Love  of  a   Gay   Spirit     233 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  GAY  SPIRIT 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

P\ONATELLO  smiled  ;  he  laughed  heartily,  indeed,  in 
^~^  sympathy  with  the  mirth  that  gleamed  out  of  Miri- 
am's deep,  dark  eyes.  But  he  did  not  seem  quite  to  under- 
stand her  mirthful  talk,  nor  to  be  disposed  to  explain  what 
kind  of  creature  he  was,  or  to  inquire  with  what  divine  or 
poetic  kindred  his  companion  feigned  to  link  him.  He  ap- 
peared only  to  know  that  Miriam  was  beautiful,  and  that 
she  smiled  graciously  upon  him ;  that  the  present  moment 
was  very  sweet,  and  himself  most  happy,  with  the  sunshine, 
the  silvan  scenery,  and  woman's  kindly  charm,  which  it  en- 
closed within  its  small  circumference.  It  was  delightful  to 
see  the  trust  which  he  reposed  in  Miriam,  and  his  pure  joy 
in  her  propinquity  ;  he  asked  nothing,  sought  nothing,  save 
to  be  near  the  beloved  object,  and  brimmed  over  with  ec- 
stasy at  that  simple  boon.  A  creature  of  the  happy  tribes 
below  us  sometimes  shows  the  capacity  of  this  enjoyment ; 
a  man,  seldom  or  never. 

"Donatello,"  said  Miriam,  looking  at  him  thoughtfully, 
but  amused,  yet  not  without  a  shade  of  sorrow,  "  you  seem 
very  happy  ;  what  makes  you  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you  !  "  answered  Donatello. 

He  made  this  momentous  confession  as  if  it  were  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world ;  and  on  her  part, — such 
was  the  contagion  of  his  simplicity — Miriam  heard  it  with- 
out anger  or  disturbance,  though  with  no  responding 
emotion.  It  was  as  if  they  had  strayed  across  the  limits  of 
Arcadia,  and  come  under  a  civil  polity  where  young  men 
might  avow  their  passion  with  as  little  restraint  as  a  bird 
pipes  its  note  to  a  similar  purpose. 

"Why  should  you  love  me,  foolish  boy?"  said  she. 
"  We  have  no  points  of  sympathy  at  all.  There  are  not 
two  creatures  more  unlike,  in  this  wide  world,  than  you 
and  I !  " 


234     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

"  You  are  yourself,  and  I  am  Donatello,"  replied  he. 
"  Therefore  I  love  you  !  There  needs  no  other  reason." 

Certainly,  there  was  no  better  or  more  explicable  reason. 
It  might  have  been  imagined  that  Donatello's  unsophisticated 
heart  would  be  more  readily  attracted  to  a  feminine  nature  of 
clear  simplicity  like  his  own,  than  to  one  already  turbid 
with  grief  or  wrong,  as  Miriam's  seemed  to  be.  Perhaps, 
on  the  other  hand,  his  character  needed  the  dark  element, 
which  it  found  in  her.  The  force  and  energy  of  will,  that 
sometimes  flashed  through  her  eyes,  may  have  taken  him 
captive  ;  or,  not  improbably,  the  varying  lights  and  shadows 
of  her  temper,  now  so  mirthful,  and  anon  so  sad  with  mys- 
terious gloom,  had  bewitched  the  youth.  Analyze  the 
matter  as  we  may,  the  reason  assigned  by  Donatello  him- 
self was  as  satisfactory  as  we  are  likely  to  attain. 

Miriam  could  not  think  seriously  of  the  avowal  that  had 
passed.  He  held  out  his  love  so  freely,  in  his  open  palm, 
that  she  felt  it  could  be  nothing  but  a  toy,  which  she  might 
play  with  for  an  instant,  and  give  back  again.  And  yet 
Donatello's  heart  was  so  fresh  a  fountain,  that,  had  Miriam 
been  more  world-worn  than  she  was,  she  might  have  found 
it  exquisite  to  slake  her  thirst  with  the  feelings  that  welled 
up  and  brimmed  over  from  it.  She  was  far,  very  far,  from 
the  dusty  mediaeval  epoch,  when  some  women  have  a  taste 
for  such  refreshment.  Even  for  her,  however,  there  was 
an  inexpressible  charm  in  the  simplicity  that  prompted 
Donatello's  words  and  deeds ;  though,  unless  she  caught 
them  in  precisely  the  true  light,  they  seemed  but  folly,  the 
offspring  of  a  maimed  or  imperfectly  developed  intellect. 
Alternately,  she  almost  admired,  or  wholly  scorned  him, 
and  knew  not  which  estimate  resulted  from  the  deeper 
appreciation.  But  it  could  not,  she  decided  for  herself,  be 
other  than  an  innocent  pastime,  if  they  two — sure  to  be 
separated  by  their  different  paths  in  life,  to-morrow — were 
to  gather  up  some  of  the  little  pleasures  that  chanced  to 
grow  about  their  feet,  like  the  violets  and  wood-anemones, 
to-day. 

Yet  an  impulse  of  rectitude  impelled  Miriam  to  give  him 
what  she  still  held  to  be  a  needless  warning  against  an  im- 
aginary peril. 


The   Love  of  a   Gay   Spirit     235 

"  If  you  were  wiser,  Donatello,  you  would  think  me  a 
dangerous  person,"  said  she.  "  If  you  follow  my  footsteps, 
they  will  lead  you  to  no  good.  You  ought  to  be  afraid  of  me." 

"  I  would  as  soon  think  of  fearing  the  air  we  breathe," 
he  replied. 

"  And  well  you  may,  for  it  is  full  of  malaria,"  said 
Miriam ;  she  went  on,  hinting  at  an  intangible  confession, 
such  as  persons  with  overburdened  hearts  often  make  to 
children  or  dumb  animals,  or  to  holes  in  the  earth,  where 
they  think  their  secrets  may  be  at  once  revealed  and  buried. 
"  Those  who  come  too  near  me  are  in  danger  of  great  mis- 
chiefs, I  do  assure  you.  Take  warning,  therefore  !  It  is  a 
sad  fatality  that  has  brought  you  from  your  home  among  the 
Apennines, — some  rusty  old  castle  I  suppose,  with  a  village 
at  its  foot,  and  an  Arcadian  environment  of  vineyards,  fig- 
trees,  and  olive  orchards, — a  sad  mischance,  I  say,  that  has 
transported  you  to  my  side.  You  have  had  a  happy  life, 
hitherto, — have  you  not,  Donatello  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  the  young  man ;  and,  though  not 
of  a  retrospective  turn,  he  made  the  best  effort  he  could  to 
send  his  mind  back  into  the  past.  "  I  remember  thinking 
it  happiness  to  dance  with  the  contadinas  at  a  village  feast; 
to  taste  the  new  sweet  wine  at  vintage-time,  and  the  old, 
ripened  wine,  which  our  podere  is  famous  for,  in  the  cold 
winter  evenings  ;  and  to  devour  great  luscious  figs,  and 
apricots,  peaches,  cherries,  and  melons.  I  was  often  happy 
in  the  woods,  too,  with  hounds  and  horses,  and  very  happy 
in  watching  all  sorts  of  creatures  and  birds  that  haunt  the 
leafy  solitudes.  But  never  half  so  happy  as  now  !  " 

"  In  these  delightful  groves  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Here,  and  with  you,"  answered  Donatello.  "Just  as 
we  are  now." 

"  What  a  fulness  of  content  in  him  !  How  silly  and 
how  delightful  !  "  said  Miriam  to  herself.  Then  address- 
ing him  again  :  "  But,  Donatello,  how  long  will  this  hap- 
piness last  ?  " 

"  How  long  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  for  it  perplexed  him  even 
more  to  think  of  the  future  than  to  remember  the  past. 
Why  should  it  have  any  end?  "  How  long  !  Forever! 
forever  !  forever  !  " 


236     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

"The  child!  the  simpleton  !  "  said  Miriam,  with  sudden 
laughter  and  checking  it  as  suddenly.  "  But  is  he  a  simple- 
ton indeed  ?  Here,  in  those  few  natural  words,  he  has  ex- 
pressed that  deep  sense,  that  profound  conviction  of  its 
own  immortality,  which  genuine  love  never  fails  to  bring. 
He  perplexes  me, — yes,  and  bewitches  me, — wild,  gentle, 
beautiful  creature  that  he  is!  It  is  like  playing  with  a 
young  greyhound ! " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  at  the  same  time  that  a  smile 
shone  out  of  them.  Then  she  first  became  sensible  of  a 
delight  and  grief  at  once,  in  feeling  this  zephyr  of  a  new 
affection,  with  its  untainted  freshness,  blow  over  her  weary, 
stifled  heart,  which  had  no  right  to  be  revived  by  it.  The 
very  exquisiteness  of  the  enjoyment  made  her  know  that  it 
ought  to  be  a  forbidden  one. 

"  Donatello,"  she  hastily  exclaimed,  "  for  your  own  sake, 
leave  me  !  It  is  not  such  a  happy  thing  as  you  imagine  it, 
to  wander  in  these  woods  with  me,  a  girl  from  another  land, 
burdened  with  a  doom  that  she  tells  to  none.  I  might 
make  you  dread  me, — perhaps  hate  me, — if  I  chose ;  and  I 
must  choose,  if  I  find  you  loving  me  too  well ! " 

"  I  fear  nothing  !  "  said  Donatello,  looking  into  her  un- 
fathomable eyes  with  perfect  trust.  "  I  love  always  !  " 

"  I  speak  in  vain,"  thought  Miriam  within  herself. 
"Well,  then,  for  this  one  hour,  let  me  be  such  as  he 
imagines  me.  To-morrow  will  be  time  enough  to  come 
back  to  my  reality.  My  reality  !  what  is  it  ?  Is  the  past 
so  indestructible  ?  the  future  so  immitigable  ?  Is  the  dark 
dream,  in  which  I  walk,  of  such  solid,  stony  substance,  that 
there  can  be  no  escape  out  of  its  dungeon  ?  Be  it  so ! 
There  is,  at  least,  that  ethereal  quality  in  my  spirit,  that  it 
can  make  me  as  gay  as  Donatello  himself, — for  this  one 
hour !  " 

And  immediately  she  brightened  up,  as  if  an  inward 
flame,  heretofore  stifled,  were  now  permitted  to  fill  her 
with  its  happy  lustre,  glowing  through  her  cheeks  and 
dancing  in  her  eye-beams. 

Donatello,  brisk  and  cheerful  as  he  seemed  before, 
showed  a  sensibility  to  Miriam's  gladdened  mood  breaking 
into  still  wilder  and  ever-varying  activity.  He  frisked 


The   Love  of  a    Gay   Spirit     237 

around  her,  bubbling  over  with  joy,  which  clothed  itself  in 
words  that  had  little  individual  meaning,  and  in  snatches  of 
song  that  seemed  as  natural  as  bird-notes.  Then  they  both 
laughed  together,  and  heard  their  own  laughter  returning  in 
the  echoes,  and  laughed  again  at  the  response,  so  that  the 
ancient  and  solemn  grove  became  full  of  merriment  for 
these  two  blithe  spirits.  A  bird  happening  to  sing  cheerily, 
Donatello  gave  a  peculiar  call,  and  the  little  feathered 
creature  came  fluttering  about  his  head,  as  if  it  had  known 
him  through  many  summers. 

"  How  close  he  stands  to  nature  !  "  said  Miriam,  observ- 
ing this  pleasant  familiarity  between  her  companion  and 
the  bird.  "  He  shall  make  me  as  natural  as  himself  for  this 
one  hour! " 

(  The  Marble  Faun,  Boston,  1860.) 


238     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


FRANK  CONFESSIONS 

GEORGE  ELIOT 

'  I  *ITO  walked  along  with  a  light  step,  for  the  immediate 
fear  had  vanished  :  the  usual  joyousness  of  his  dis- 
position  reassumed  its  predominance,  and  he  was  going  to 
see  Romola. 

As  he  trod  the  stone  stairs,  when  he  was  still  outside  the 
door  with  no  one  but  Maso  near  him,  the  influence  seemed 
to  have  begun  its  work  by  the  mere  nearness  of  anticipa- 
tion. 

"  Welcome,  Tito  mio,"  said  the  old  man's  voice,  before 
Tito  had  spoken.  There  was  a  new  vigour  in  the  voice,  a 
new  cheerfulness  in  the  blind  face,  since  that  first  interview 
more  than  two  months  ago.  "You  have  brought  fresh 
manuscript,  doubtless;  but  since  we  were  talking  last  night 
I  have  had  new  ideas :  we  must  take  a  wider  scope — we 
must  go  back  upon  our  footsteps." 

Tito,  paying  his  homage  to  Romola  as  he  advanced, 
went,  as  his  custom  was,  straight  to  Bardo's  chair,  and  put 
his  hand  in  the  palm  that  was  held  to  receive  it,  placing 
himself  on  the  cross-legged  leather  seat  with  scrolled  ends 
close  to  Bardo's  elbow. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  his  gentle  way  ;  "  I  have  brought  the 
new  manuscript,  but  that  can  wait  your  pleasure.  I  have 
young  limbs,  you  know,  and  can  walk  back  up  the  hill 
without  any  difficulty." 

He  did  not  look  at  Romola  as  he  said  this,  but  he 
knew  quite  well  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with 
delight. 

"  That  is  well  said,  my  son."  Bardo  had  already  addressed 
Tito  in  this  way  once  or  twice  of  late.  "  And  I  perceive 
with  gladness  that  you  do  not  shrink  from  labour,  without 
which,  the  poet  has  wisely  said,  life  has  given  nothing  to 
mortals.  .  .  .  You  mark  what  I  am  saying,  Tito  ? " 

He  had  just  stooped  to  reach  his  manuscript,  which  had 


Frank   Confessions  239 

rolled  down,  and  Bardo's  jealous  ear  was  alive  to  the 
slightest  movement. 

Tito  might  have  been  excused  for  shrugging  his  shoulders 
at  the  prospect  before  him,  but  he  was  not  naturally  im- 
patient ;  moreover,  he  had  been  bred  up  in  that  laborious 
erudition,  at  once  minute  and  copious,  which  was  the  chief 
intellectual  task  of  the  age  ;  and  with  Romola  near,  he  was 
floated  along  by  waves  of  agreeable  sensation  that  made 
everything  seem  easy. 

"Assuredly,"  he  said,  "you  wish  to  enlarge  your  com- 
ments on  certain  passages  we  have  cited." 

"  Not  only  so ;  I  wish  to  introduce  an  occasional  ex- 
cursus, where  we  have  noticed  an  author  to  whom  I  have 
given  special  study  .  .  .  and  therefore  I  would  intro- 
duce an  excursus  on  Thucydides,  wherein  my  castigations 
of  Valla's  text  may  find  a  fitting  place.  My  Romola,  thou 
wilt  reach  the  needful  volumes — thou  knowest  them — on 
the  fifth  shelf  of  the  cabinet." 

Tito  rose  at  the  same  moment  with  Romola,  saying, 
" 1  will  reach  them,  if  you  will  point  them  out,"  and  fol- 
lowed her  hastily  into  the  adjoining  small  room,  where  the 
walls  were  also  covered  with  ranges  of  books  in  perfect 
order. 

"  There  they  are,"  said  Romola,  pointing  upward ; 
"  every  book  is  just  where  it  was  when  my  father  ceased  to 
see  them." 

Tito  stood  by  her  without  hastening  to  reach  the  books. 
They  had  never  been  in  this  room  together  before. 

"I  hope,"  she  continued,  turning  her  eyes  full  on  Tito, 
with  a  look  of  grave  confidence — "  I  hope  he  will  not 
weary  you ;  this  work  makes  him  so  happy." 

"And  me  too,  Romola — if  you  will  only  let  me  say,  I 
love  you — if  you  will  only  think  me  worth  loving  a  little." 

His  speech  was  the  softest  murmur,  and  the  dark  beauti- 
ful face,  nearer  to  hers  than  it  had  ever  been  before,  was 
looking  at  her  with  beseeching  tenderness. 

"  I  do  love  you,"  murmured  Romola ;  she  looked  at  him 
with  the  same  simple  majesty  as  ever,  but  her  voice  had 
never  in  her  life  before  sunk  to  that  murmur.  It  seemed 
to  them  both  that  they  were  looking  at  each  other  a  long 


240     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

while    before    her   lips    moved    again ;    yet    it   was    but  a 
moment  till  she  said,  "  I  know  now  what  it  is  to  be  happy." 

The  faces  just  met,  and  the  dark  curls  mingled  for  an 
instant  with  the  rippling  gold.  Quick  as  lightning  after 
that,  Tito  set  his  foot  on  a  projecting  ledge  of  the  book- 
shelves and  reached  down  the  needful  volumes.  They 
were  both  contented  to  be  silent  and  separate,  for  that  first 
blissful  experience  of  mutual  consciousness  was  all  the 
more  exquisite  for  being  unperturbed  by  immediate  sensa- 
tion. 

It  had  all  been  as  rapid  as  the  irreversible  mingling  of 
waters,  for  even  the  eager  and  jealous  Bardo  had  not  become 
impatient. 

"  You  have  the  volumes,  my  Romola  ?  "  the  old  man 
said,  as  they  came  near  him  again.  "  And  now  you  will 
get  your  pen  ready  ;  for,  as  Tito  marks  off  the  scholia  we 
determine  on  extracting,  it  will  be  well  for  you  to  copy 
them  without  delay — numbering  them  carefully,  mind,  to 
correspond  with  the  numbers  in  the  text  which  he  will 
write." 

Romola  always  had  some  task  which  gave  her  a  share  in 
this  joint  work.  Tito  took  his  stand  at  the  leggio,  where 
he  both  wrote  and  read,  and  she  placed  herself  at  a  table 
just  in  front  of  him,  where  she  was  ready  to  give  into  her 
father's  hands  anything  that  he  might  happen  to  want,  or 
relieve  him  of  a  volume  that  he  had  done  with.  They  had 
always  been  in  that  position  since  the  work  began,  yet  on 
this  day  it  seemed  new ;  it  was  so  different  now  for  them 
to  be  opposite  each  other;  so  different  for  Tito  to  take  a 
book  from  her,  as  she  lifted  it  from  her  father's  knee.  Yet 
there  was  no  finesse  to  secure  an  additional  look  or  touch. 
Each  woman  creates  in  her  own  likeness  the  love-tokens 
that  are  offered  to  her ;  and  Romola's  deep,  calm  happiness 
encompassed  Tito  like  the  rich  but  quiet  evening  light 
which  dissipates  all  unrest. 

They  had  sat  in  silence,  and  in  a  deepening  twilight  for 
many  minutes,  when  Romola  ventured  to  say  — 

"  Shall  I  light  the  lamp,  father,  and  shall  we  go  on  ?  " 

"No,  my  Romola,  we  will  work  no  more  to-night. 
Tito,  come  and  sit  by  me  here." 


Rossttti. 


PAOLO   AND    FRANCESCA 


Frank   Confessions  241 

Tito  moved  from  the  reading-desk,  and  seated  himself 
on  the  other  side  of  Bardo,  close  to  his  left  elbow. 

"  Come  nearer  to  me,  figliuola  mia,"  said  Bardo  again, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  And  Romola  seated  herself  on  a 
low  stool  and  let  her  arm  rest  on  her  father's  right  knee, 
that  he  might  lay  his  hand  on  her  hair,  as  he  was  fond  of 
doing. 

"Tito,  I  never  told  you  that  I  had  once  a  son,"  said 
Bardo,  forgetting  what  had  fallen  from  him  in  the  emotion 
raised  by  their  first  interview.  The  old  man  had  been 
deeply  shaken,  and  was  forced  to  pour  out  his  feelings  in 
spite  of  pride.  "  But  he  left  me — he  is  dead  to  me.  I 
have  disowned  him  forever.  He  was  a  ready  scholar  as 
you  are,  but  more  fervid  and  impatient,  and  yet  sometimes 
wrapt  and  self-absorbed,  like  a  flame  fed  by  some  fitful 
source ;  showing  a  disposition  from  the  very  first  to  turn 
away  his  eyes  from  the  clear  lights  of  reason  and  philoso- 
phy, and  to  prostrate  himself  under  the  influences  of  a  dim 
mysticism  which  eludes  all  rules  of  human  duty  as  it  eludes 
all  argument.  And  so  it  ended.  We  will  speak  no  more 
of  him  :  he  is  dead  to  me.  I  wish  his  face  could  be  blotted 
from  that  world  of  memory  in  which  the  distant  seems  to 
grow  clearer  and  the  near  to  fade." 

Bardo  paused,  but  neither  Romola  nor  Tito  dared  to 
speak — his  voice  was  too  tremulous,  the  poise  of  his  feel- 
ings too  doubtful.  But  he  presently  raised  his  hand  and 
found  Tito's  shoulder  to  rest  it  on,  while  he  went  on 
speaking,  with  an  effort  to  be  calmer. 

"  But  you  have  come  to  me,  Tito — not  quite  too  late.  I 
will  lose  no  time  in  vain  regret.  When  you  are  working 
by  my  side  I  seem  to  have  found  a  son  again." 

The  old  man,  preoccupied  with  the  governing  interest 
of  his  life,  was  only  thinking  of  the  much-meditated  book 
which  had  quite  thrust  into  the  background  the  suggestion, 
raised  by  Bernardo  del  Nero's  warning,  of  a  possible  mar- 
riage between  Tito  and  Romola.  But  Tito  could  not  al- 
low the  moment  to  pass  unused. 

"  Will  you  let  me  be  always  and  altogether  your  son  ? 
Will  you  let  me  take  care  of  Romola — be  her  husband  ? 
I  think  she  will  not  deny  me.  She  has  said  she  loves  me. 


242     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

I  know  I  am  not  equal  to  her  in  birth — in  anything  ;  but  I 
am  no  longer  a  destitute  stranger." 

"Is  it  true,  my  Romola?  "  said  Bardo,  in  a  lower  tone, 
an  evident  vibration  passing  through  him  and  dissipating 
the  saddened  aspect  of  his  features. 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Romola,  firmly.  "  I  love  Tito — I 
wish  to  marry  him,  that  we  may  both  be  your  children  and 
never  part." 

Tito's  hand  met  hers  in  a  strong  clasp  for  the  first  time, 
while  she  was  speaking,  but  their  eyes  were  fixed  anxiously 
on  her  father. 

"  Why  should  it  not  be  ?  "  said  Bardo,  as  if  arguing 
against  any  opposition  to  his  assent,  rather  than  assenting. 
"  It  would  be  a  happiness  to  me ;  and  thou,  too,  Romola, 
wouldst  be  the  happier  for  it." 

He  stroked  her  long  hair  gently  and  bent  towards  her. 

"  Ah,  I  have  been  apt  to  forget  that  thou  needest  some 
other  love  than  mine.  And  thou  wilt  be  a  noble  wife. 
Bernardo  thinks  I  shall  hardly  find  a  husband  fitting  for 
thee.  And  he  is  perhaps  right.  For  thou  art  not  like  the 
herd  of  thy  sex :  thou  art  such  a  woman  as  the  immortal 
poets  had  a  vision  of  when  they  sang  the  lives  of  the 
heroes — tender  but  strong,  like  thy  voice,  which  has  been 
to  me  instead  of  the  light  in  the  years  of  my  blindness. 
And  so  thou  lovest  him  ?  " 

He  sat  upright  again  for  a  minute,  and  then  said,  in  the 
same  tone  as  before,  "  Why  should  it  not  be  ?  I  will  think 
of  ii ;  I  will  talk  with  Bernardo." 

Tito  felt  a  disagreeable  chill  at  this  answer,  for  Bernardo 
del  Nero's  eyes  had  retained  their  keen  suspicion  whenever 
they  looked  at  him,  and  the  uneasy  remembrance  of  Fra 
Luca  converted  all  uncertainty  into  fear. 

"  Speak  for  me,  Romola,"  he  said,  pleadingly.  "  Messer 
Bernardo  is  sure  to  be  against  me." 

"No,  Tito,"  said  Romola,  "my  godfather  will  not  op- 
pose what  my  father  firmly  wills.  And  it  is  your  will  that 
I  should  marry  Tito — is  it  not  true,  father?  Nothing  has 
ever  come  to  me  before  that  I  have  wished  for  strongly  :  I 
did  not  think  it  possible  that  I  could  care  so  much  for  any- 
thing that  could  happen  to  myself." 


Frank    Confessions  243 

It  was  a  brief  and  simple  plea  ;  but  it  was  the  condensed 
story  of  Romola's  self-repressing  colourless  young  life,  which 
had  thrown  all  its  passion  into  sympathy  with  aged  sorrows, 
aged  ambition,  aged  pride  and  indignation.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  Romola  that  she  should  not  speak  as  directly 
and  emphatically  of  her  love  for  Tito  as  of  any  other  sub- 
ject. 

"  Romola  mia !  "  said  her  father  fondly,  pausing  on  the 
words,  "  it  is  true  thou  hast  never  urged  on  me  any  wishes 
of  thy  own.  And  I  have  no  will  to  resist  thine;  rather, 
my  heart  met  Tito's  entreaty  at  its  very  first  utterance. 
Nevertheless,  I  must  talk  with  Bernardo  about  the  measures 
needful  to  be  observed.  For  we  must  not  act  in  haste,  or 
do  anything  unbeseeming  my  name.  I  am  poor,  and  held 
of  little  account  by  the  wealthy  of  our  family — nay,  I  may 
consider  myself  a  lonely  man — but  I  must  nevertheless  re- 
member that  generous  birth  has  its  obligations.  And  I 
would  not  be  reproached  by  my  fellow-citizens  for  rash 
haste  in  bestowing  my  daughter.  Bartolommeo  Scala  gave 
his  Alessandra  to  the  Greek  Marullo,  but  Marullo's  lineage 
was  well  known,  and  Scala  himself  is  of  no  extraction.  I 
know  Bernardo  will  hold  that  we  must  take  time  :  he  will, 
perhaps,  reproach  me  with  want  of  due  forethought.  Be 
patient,  my  children  :  you  are  very  young." 

No  more  could  be  said,  and  Romola's  heart  was  perfectly 
satisfied.  Not  so  Tito's.  If  the  subtle  mixture  of  good 
and  evil  prepares  suffering  for  human  truth  and  purity, 
there  is  also  suffering  prepared  for  the  wrong-doer  by  the 
same  mingled  conditions.  As  Tito  kissed  Romola  on  their 
parting  that  evening,  the  very  strength  of  the  thrill  that 
moved  his  whole  being  at  the  sense  that  this  woman,  whose 
beauty  it  was  hardly  possible  to  think  of  as  anything  but 
the  necessary  consequence  of  her  noble  nature,  loved  him 
with  all  the  tenderness  that  spoke  in  her  clear  eyes,  brought 
a  strong  reaction  of  regret  that  he  had  not  kept  himself  free 
from  that  first  deceit  which  had  dragged  him  into  the  danger 
of  being  disgraced  before  her.  There  was  a  spring  of  bit- 
terness mingling  with  that  fountain  of  sweets. 

(Romola,  London,  /c?<5j.) 


244     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


IN  THE  GOLD  OF  AUGUST 

RICHARD  DODDRIDGE  BLACKMORE 

A  ND  first  I  went,  I  know  not  why,  to  the  crest  of  the 
broken  highland,  whence  I  had  agreed  to  watch  for 
any  mark  or  signal.  And,  sure  enough,  at  last  I  saw 
(when  it  was  too  late  to  see)  that  the  white  stone  had  been 
covered  over  with  a  cloth  of  mantle — the  sign  that  some- 
thing had  arisen  to  make  Lorna  want  me.  For  a  moment 
I  stood  amazed  at  my  evil  fortune ;  that  I  should  be  too 
late  in  the  very  thing  of  all  things  on  which  my  heart  was 
set !  Then,  after  eyeing  sorrowfully  every  crick  and 
cranny,  to  be  sure  that  not  a  single  flutter  of  my  love  was 
visible,  off  I  set,  with  small  respect  either  of  my  knees  or 
neck,  to  make  the  round  of  the  outer  cliffs,  and  come  up 
my  old  access. 

Nothing  could  stop  me ;  it  was  not  long,  although  to  me 
it  seemed  an  age,  before  I  stood  in  the  niche  of  rock  at  the 
head  of  the  slippery  water-course,  and  gazed  into  the  quiet 
glen,  where  my  foolish  heart  was  dwelling.  Notwithstand- 
ing doubts  of  right,  notwithstanding  sense  of  duty,  and 
despite  all  manly  striving,  and  the  great  love  of  my  home, 
there  my  heart  was  ever  dwelling,  knowing  what  a  fool  it 
was,  and  content  to  know  it. 

Many  birds  came  twittering  round  me  in  the  gold  of 
August;  many  trees  showed  twinkling  beauty  as  the  sun 
went  lower,  and  the  lines  of  water  fell,  from  wrinkles  into 
dimples.  Little  heeding,  there  I  crouched  ;  though  with 
sense  of  everything  that  afterwards  should  move  me,  like  a 
picture  or  a  dream,  and  everything  went  by  me  softly  while 
my  heart  was  gazing. 

At  last  a  little  figure  came,  not  insignificant  (I  mean), 
but  looking  very  light  and  slender  in  the  moving  shadows, 
gently  here  and  softly  there,  as  if  vague  of  purpose,  with  a 
gloss  of  tender  movement,  in  and  out  the  wealth  of  trees, 
and  liberty  of  the  meadow.  Who  was  I  to  crouch,  or 
doubt,  or  look  at  her  from  a  distance  ;  what  matter  if  they 


In   the   Gold  of  August         245 

killed  me  now,  and  one  tear  came  to  bury  me  ?  There- 
fore I  rushed  out  at  once,  as  if  shotguns  were  unknown 
yet ;  not  from  any  real  courage,  but  from  prisoned  love 
burst  forth. 

I  know  not  whether  my  own  Lorna  was  afraid  of  what 
I  looked,  or  what  I  might  say  to  her,  or  of  her  own 
thoughts  of  me ;  all  I  know  is  that  she  looked  frightened 
when  I  hoped  for  gladness.  Perhaps  the  power  of  my  joy 
was  more  than  maiden  liked  to  own,  or  in  any  way  to  an- 
swer to ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  seemed  as  if  I  might  now 
forget  myself;  while  she  would  take  good  care  of  it.  This 
makes  a  man  grow  thoughtful ;  unless,  as  some  low  fellows 
do,  he  believe  all  women  hypocrites. 

Therefore  I  went  slowly  towards  her,  taken  back  in  my 
impulse ;  and  said  all  I  could  come  to  say,  with  some  dis- 
tress in  doing  it. 

"Mistress  Lorna,  I  had  hoped  that  you  were  in  need  of 
me." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  that  was  long  ago  ;  two  months  ago,  or 
more,  sir."  And  saying  this  she  looked  away,  as  if  it  all 
were  over.  But  I  was  now  so  dazed  and  frightened  that  it 
took  my  breath  away,  and  I  could  not  answer,  feeling  sure 
that  I  was  robbed  and  some  one  else  had  won  her.  And  I 
tried  to  turn  away,  without  another  word,  and  go. 

But  I  could  not  help  one  stupid  sob,  though  mad  with 
myself  for  allowing  it,  but  it  came  too  sharp  for  pride  to 
stay  it,  and  it  told  a  world  of  things.  Lorna  heard  it,  and 
ran  to  me  with  her  bright  eyes  full  of  wonder,  pity,  and 
great  kindness,  as  if  amazed  that  I  had  more  than  a  simple 
liking  for  her.  Then  she  held  out  both  hands  to  me,  and 
I  took  and  looked  at  them. 

"  Master  Ridd,  I  did  not  mean,"  she  whispered,  very 
softly — "  I  did  not  mean  to  vex  you." 

"If  you  would  be  loath  to  vex  me,  none  else  in  this 
world  can  do  it,"  I  answered,  out  of  my  great  love,  but 
fearing  yet  to  look  at  her,  mine  eyes  not  being  strong 
enough. 

"  Come  away  from  this  bright  place,"  she  answered, 
trembling  in  her  turn ;  "  I  am  watched  and  spied  of  late. 
Come  beneath  the  shadows,  John." 


246     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

I  would  have  leaped  into  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death  (as  described  by  the  late  John  Bunyan),  only  to  hear 
her  call  me  "  John ;  "  though  Apollyon  were  lurking  there, 
and  Despair  should  lock  me  in. 

She  stole  across  the  silent  grass,  but  I  strode  hotly  after 
her;  fear  was  all  beyond  me  now,  except  the  fear  of  losing 
her.  I  could  not  but  behold  her  manner,  as  she  went  be- 
fore me,  all  her  grace,  and  lovely  sweetness,  and  her  sense 
of  what  she  was. 

She  led  me  to  her  own  rich  bower,  which  I  told  of  once 
before ;  and  if  in  spring  it  were  a  sight,  what  was  it  in 
summer-glory  ?  But  although  my  mind  had  notice  of  its 
fairness  and  its  wonder,  not  a  heed  my  heart  took  of  it, 
neither  dwelt  it  in  my  presence  more  than  flowing  water. 
All  that  in  my  presence  dwelt,  all  that  in  my  heart  was 
felt,  was  the  maiden  moved  gently,  and  afraid  to  look  at  me. 

For  now  the  power  of  my  love  was  abiding  on  her,  new 
to  her;  unknown  to  her,  not  a  thing  to  speak  about,  nor 
even  to  think  clearly  ;  only  just  to  feel  and  wonder,  with  a 
pain  of  sweetness.  She  could  look  at  me  no  more,  neither 
could  she  look  away,  with  a  studied  manner — only  to  let 
fall  her  eyes,  and  blush,  and  be  put  out  with  me,  and  still 
more  with  herself. 

I  left  her  quite  alone  ;  though  close,  though  tingling  to 
have  hold  of  her.  Even  her  right  hand  was  dropped  and 
lay  among  the  mosses.  Neither  did  I  try  to  steal  one 
glimpse  below  her  eyelids.  Life  and  death  were  hanging 
on  the  first  glance  I  should  win  ;  yet  I  let  it  be  so. 

After  long  or  short — I  know  not,  yet  ere  I  was  weary, 
ere  I  yet  began  to  think  or  wish  for  any  answer — Lorna 
slowly  raised  her  eyelids,  with  a  gleam  of  dew  below  them, 
and  looked  at  me  doubtfully.  Any  look  with  so  much  in 
it  never  met  my  gaze  before. 

"  Darling,  do  you  love  me  ?  "  was  all  that  I  could  say  to 
her. 

41  Yes,  I  like  you  very  much,"  she  answered,  with  her 
eyes  gone  from  me,  and  her  dark  hair  falling  over,  so  as 
not  to  show  me  things. 

"  But  do  you  love  me,  Lorna,  Lorna ;  do  you  love  me 
more  than  all  the  world  ?  " 


In   the   Gold  of  August         247 

"  No,  to  be  sure  not.     Now  why  should  I  ?  " 

"  In  truth,  I  know  not  why  you  should.  Only  I  hoped 
that  you  did,  Lorna.  Either  love  me  not  at  all,  or  as  I 
love  you,  forever." 

44  John,  I  love  you  very  much ;  and  I  would  not  grieve 
you.  You  are  the  bravest,  and  the  kindest,  and  the  sim- 
plest of  all  men — I  mean  of  all  people — I  like  you  very 
much,  Master  Ridd,  and  I  think  of  you  almost  every  day." 

"That  will  not  do  for  me,  Lorna.  Not  almost  every 
day  I  think,  but  every  instant  of  my  life,  of  you.  For  you 
I  would  give  up  my  home,  my  love  of  all  the  world  beside, 
my  duty  to  my  dearest  ones  ;  for  you  I  would  give  up  my 
life,  and  hope  of  life  beyond  it.  Do  you  love  me  so  ?  " 

44  Not  by  any  means,"  said  Lorna  ;  "  no  ;  I  like  you  very 
much  when  you  do  not  talk  so  wildly  ;  and  I  like  to  see 
you  come  as  if  you  would  fill  our  valley  up,  and  I  like  to 
think  that  even  Carver  would  be  nothing  in  your  hands — 
but  as  to  liking  you  like  that,  what  should  make  it  likely  ? 
especially  when  I  have  made  the  signal,  and  for  some  two 
months  or  more  you  have  never  even  answered  it.  If  you 
like  me  so  ferociously,  why  do  you  leave  me  for  other  peo- 
ple to  do  just  as  they  like  with  me  ?  " 

44  To  do  as  they  liked  !  Oh,  Lorna,  not  to  make  you 
marry  Carver  ?  " 

44  No,  Master  Ridd,  be  not  frightened  so  ;  it  makes  me 
fear  to  look  at  you." 

44  But  you  have  not  married  Carver  yet  ?  Say  quick. 
Why  keep  me  waiting  so  ?  " 

44  Of  course  I  have  not,  Master  Ridd.  Should  I  be  here 
if  I  had,  think  you,  and  allowing  you  to  like  me  so,  and  to 
hold  my  hand,  and  make  me  laugh,  as  I  declare  you  almost 
do  sometimes  ?  And  at  other  times  you  frighten  me." 

44  Did  they  want  you  to  marry  Carver  ?  Tell  me  all  the 
truth  of  it." 

44  Not  yet,  not  yet.  They  are  not  half  so  impetuous  as 
you  are,  John.  I  am  only  just  seventeen,  you  know,  and 
who  is  to  think  of  marrying  ?  But  they  wanted  me  to 
give  my  word,  and  be  formally  betrothed  to  him  in  the 
presence  of  my  grandfather.  It  seems  that  something 
frightened  them.  There  is  a  youth  named  Charleworth 


248     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Doone,  every  one  calls  him  c  Charlie ; '  a  headstrong  and 
gay  young  man,  very  gallant  in  his  looks  and  manner;  and 
my  uncle,  the  Counselor,  chose  to  fancy  that  Charlie  looked 
at  me  too  much  coming  by  my  grandfather's  cottage." 

Here  Lorna  blushed  so  that  I  was  frightened,  and  began 
to  hate  this  Charlie  more,  a  great  deal  more  than  even 
Carver  Doone. 

"  He  had  better  not,"  said  I ;  "  I  will  fling  him  over  it, 
if  he  dare.  He  shall  see  thee  through  the  roof,  Lorna,  if 
at  all  he  see  thee." 

"  Master  Ridd,  you  are  worse  than  Carver !  I  thought 
you  were  so  kind-hearted.  Well,  they  wanted  me  to 
promise,  and  even  to  swear  a  solemn  oath  (a  thing  I  have 
never  done  in  my  life)  that  I  would  wed  my  eldest  cousin, 
this  same  Carver  Doone,  who  is  twice  as  old  as  I  am,  being 
thirty-five  and  upward.  That  was  why  I  gave  the  token 
that  I  wished  to  see  you,  Master  Ridd.  They  pointed  out 
how  much  it  was  for  the  peace  of  all  the  family,  and  for  mine 
own  benefit;  but  I  would  not  listen  for  a  moment,  though 
the  Counselor  was  most  eloquent,  and  my  grandfather 
begged  me  to  consider,  and  Carver  smiled  his  pleasantest, 
which  is  a  truly  frightful  thing.  Then  both  he  and  his 
crafty  father  were  for  using  force  with  me ;  but  Sir  Ensor 
would  not  hear  of  it ;  and  they  have  put  off  that  extreme  until 
he  shall  be  past  its  knowledge,  or  at  least  beyond  prevent- 
ing it.  And  now  I  am  watched,  and  spied,  and  followed, 
and  half  my  little  liberty  seems  to  be  taken  from  me.  I 
could  not  be  here  speaking  with  you,  even  in  my  own 
nook  and  refuge,  but  for  the  aid,  and  skill,  and  courage  of 
dear  little  Gwenny  Carfax.  She  is  now  my  chief  reliance, 
and  through  her  alone  I  hope  to  baffle  all  my  enemies, 
since  others  have  forsaken  me." 

Tears  of  sorrow  and  reproach  were  lurking  in  her  soft 
dark  eyes,  until  in  fewest  words  I  told  her  that  my  seeming 
negligence  was  nothing  but  my  bitter  loss  and  wretched 
absence  far  away,  of  which  I  had  so  vainly  striven  to  give 
any  tidings  without  danger  to  her.  When  she  heard  all 
this,  and  saw  what  I  had  brought  from  London  (which  was 
nothing  less  than  a  ring  of  pearls  with  a  sapphire,  in  the 
midst  of  them,  as  pretty  as  could  well  be  found),  she  let 


In   the    Gold  of  August         249 

the  gentle  tears  flow  fast,  and  came  and  sat  so  close  beside 
me,  that  I  trembled  like  a  folded  sheep  at  the  bleating  of 
her  lamb.  But  recovering  comfort  quickly,  without  more 
ado  I  raised  her  left  hand  and  observed  it  with  a  nice  re- 
gard, wondering  at  the  small  blue  veins,  and  curves,  and 
tapering  whiteness,  and  the  points  it  finished  with.  My 
wonder  seemed  to  please  her  much,  herself  so  well  accus- 
tomed to  it,  and  not  fond  of  watching  it.  And  then,  be- 
fore she  could  say  a  word,  or  guess  what  I  was  up  to,  as 
quick  as  ever  I  turned  my  hand  at  a  bout  of  wrestling,  on 
her  finger  was  my  ring — sapphire  for  the  veins  of  blue,  and 
pearls  to  match  white  fingers. 

"  Oh,  you  crafty  Master  Ridd  ! "  said  Lorna,  looking  up 
at  me  and  blushing  now  a  far  brighter  blush  than  when  she 
spoke  of  Charlie ;  "  I  thought  that  you  were  much  too 
simple  ever  to  do  this  sort  of  thing.  No  wonder  you  can 
catch  the  fish,  as  when  first  I  saw  you." 

"  Have  I  caught  you,  little  fish  ?  Or  must  all  my  life 
be  spent  in  hopeless  angling  for  you  ?  " 

"  Neither  one  nor  the  other,  John  ?  You  have  not 
caught  me  yet  altogether,  though  I  like  you  dearly,  John  ; 
and  if  you  will  only  keep  away,  I  shall  like  you  more  and 
more.  As  for  hopeless  angling,  John,  that  all  others  shall 
have  until  I  tell  you  otherwise." 

With  the  large  tears  in  her  eyes — tears  which  seemed  to 
me  to  rise  partly  from  her  want  to  love  me  with  the  power 
of  my  love — she  put  her  pure  bright  lips,  half  smiling,  half 
prone  to  reply  to  tears,  against  my  forehead  lined  with 
trouble,  doubt,  and  eager  longing.  And  then  she  drew  my 
ring  from  off  that  snowy  twig  her  finger,  and  held  it  out  to 
me ;  and  then,  seeing  how  my  face  was  falling,  thrice  she 
touched  it  with  her  lips,  and  sweetly  gave  it  back  to  me. 
"John,  I  dare  not  take  it  now  ;  else  I  should  be  cheating 
you.  I  will  try  to  love  you  dearly,  even  as  you  deserve 
and  wish.  Keep  it  for  me  just  till  then.  Something  tells 
me  I  shall  earn  it  in  a  very  little  time.  Perhaps  you  will 
be  sorry  then,  sorry  when  it  is  all  too  late,  to  be  loved  by 
such  as  I  am." 

What  could  I  do,  at  her  mournful  tone,  but  kiss  a  thou- 
sand times  the  hand  which  she  put  up  to  warn  me,  and 


250     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

vow  that  I  would  rather  die  with  one  assurance  of  her  love, 
than  without  it  live  forever  with  all  beside  that  the  world 
could  give  ?  Upon  this  she  looked  so  lovely,  with  her 
dark  eyelashes  trembling,  and  her  soft  eyes  full  of  light, 
and  the  colour  of  clear  sunrise  mounting  on  her  cheeks  and 
brow,  that  I  was  forced  to  turn  away,  being  overcome  with 
beauty. 

"  Dearest  darling,  love  of  my  life,"  I  whispered  through 
her  clouds  of  hair ;  "  how  long  must  I  wait  to  know — how 
long  must  I  linger  doubting  whether  you  can  ever  stoop 
from  your  birth  and  wondrous  beauty  to  a  poor  coarse  hind 
like  me,  an  ignorant,  unlettered  yeoman " 

"  I  will  not  have  you  revile  yourself,"  said  Lorna,  very 
tenderly — just  as  I  had  meant  to  make  her.  "You  are  not 
rude  and  unlettered,  John.  You  know  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  do ;  you  have  learned  both  Greek  and  Latin,  as  you 
told  me  long  ago,  and  you  have  been  at  the  very  best  school 
in  the  West  of  England.  None  of  us  but  my  grandfather 
and  the  Counselor  (who  is  a  great  scholar)  can  compare 
with  you  in  this.  And  though  I  have  laughed  at  your 
manner  of  speech,  I  only  laughed  in  fun,  John ;  I  never 
meant  to  vex  you  by  it,  nor  knew  that  I  had  done  so." 

"  Naught  you  say  can  vex  me,  dear,"  I  answered,  as  she 
leaned  toward  me,  in  her  generous  sorrow  ;  "  unless  you 
say :  l  Begone,  John  Ridd :  I  love  another  more  than 
you.'  " 

"  Then  I  shall  never  vex  you,  John — never,  I  mean,  by 
saying  that.  Now,  John,  if  you  please,  be  quiet " 

For  I  was  carried  away  so  much  by  hearing  her  call  me 
"John  "  so  often,  and  the  music  of  her  voice,  and  the  way 
she  bent  toward  me,  and  the  shadow  of  soft  weeping  in  the 
sunlight  of  her  eyes,  that  some  of  my  great  hand  was  creep- 
ing in  a  manner  not  to  be  imagined,  and  far  less  explained, 
toward  the  lithesome,  wholesome  curving  underneath  her 
mantle-fold,  and  out  of  sight  and  harm,  as  I  thought ;  not 
being  her  front  waist.  However,  I  was  dashed  with  that, 
and  pretended  not  to  mean  it ;  only  to  pluck  some  lady- 
fern,  whose  elegance  did  me  no  good. 

"  Now,  John  ?  "  said  Lorna,  being  so  quick  that  not 
even  a  lover  could  cheat  her,  and  observing  my  confusion 


In   the    Gold  of  August          251 

more  intently  than  she  need  have  done.  "  Master  John 
Ridd,  it  is  high  time  for  you  to  go  home  to  your  mother. 
I  love  your  mother  very  much  from  what  you  have  told  me 
about  her,  and  I  will  not  have  her  cheated." 

41  If  you  truly  love  my  mother,"  said  I,  very  craftily, 
"  the  only  way  to  show  it  is  by  truly  loving  me." 

Upon  that  she  laughed  at  me  in  the  sweetest  manner, 
and  with  such  provoking  ways,  and  such  come-and-go  of 
glances,  and  beginning  of  quick  blushes,  which  she  tried  to 
laugh  away,  that  I  knew,  as  well  as  if  she  herself  had  told 
me,  by  some  knowledge  (void  of  reasoning,  and  the  surer 
for  it),  I  knew  quite  well,  while  all  my  heart  was  burning 
hot  within  me,  and  mine  eyes  were  shy  of  hers,  and  her 
eyes  were  shy  of  mine  ;  for  certain  and  forever  this  I  knew 
— as  in  a  glory — that  Lorna  Doone  had  now  begun  and 
would  go  on  to  love  me. 

(Lorna  Doone,  London,  1869?) 


252     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


PYGMALION  AND  GALATEA 

WILLIAM  S.  GILBERT 

Pygmalion's  studio. 

L.     Pygmalion ! 
Pyg.  Who  called  ? 

Gal.  Pygmalion ! 

[PvG.    tears  away   curtain   and  discovers   GAL.   alive. 

Pyg.     Ye  gods.     It  lives  ! 

Gal.  Pygmalion ! 

Pyg.  It  speaks. 

I  have  my  prayer  !     My  Galatea  breathes  ! 

Gal.     Where  am  I  ?     Let  me  speak,  Pygmalion  : 
Give  me  thy  hand — both  hands — how  soft  and  warm ! 
Whence  came  I  ?  [Descends. 

Pyg.     Why,  from  yonder  pedestal  ! 

Gal.     That  pedestal  ?     Ah,  yes,  I  recollect, 
There  was  a  time  when  it  was  part  of  me. 

Pyg.     That  time  has  passed  forever,  thou  art  now 
A  living  breathing  woman,  excellent 
In  every  attribute  of  womankind. 

Gal.     Where  am  I  then  ? 

Pyg.  Why,  born  into  the  world 

By  miracle  ! 

Gal.  Is  this  the  world  ? 

Pyg.  It  is. 

Gal.     This  room  ? 

Pyg.  This  room  is  portion  of  a  house  ; 

The  house  stands  in  a  grove;  the  grove  itself 
Is  one  of  many,  many  hundred  groves 
In  Athens. 

Gal.  And  is  Athens  then  the  world  ? 

Pyg.     To  an  Athenian — Yes — 

Gal.  And  am  I  one  ? 

Pyg.  By  birth  and  parentage,  not  by  descent. 

Gal.     But  how  came  I  to  be  ? 


Pygmalion  and  Galatea         253 

Pyg.  Well — let  me  see. 

Oh — you  were  quarried  in  Pentelicus  ; 
I  modelled  you  in  clay — my  artisans 
Then  roughed  you  out  in  marble — I,  in  turn, 
Brought  my  artistic  skill  to  bear  on  you, 
And  made  you  what  you  are — in  all  but  life — 
The  gods  completed  what  I  had  begun, 
And  gave  the  only  gift  I  could  not  give  ! 

Gal.  Then  this  is  life  ? 

Pyg.         It  is. 

Gal.  And  not  long  since 

I  was  a  cold,  dull  stone.     I  recollect 
That  by  some  means  I  knew  that  I  was  stone  : 
That  was  the  first  dull  gleam  of  consciousness ; 
I  became  conscious  of  a  chilly  self, 
A  cold  immovable  identity, 
I  knew  that  I  was  stone,  and  knew  no  more ! 
Then,  by  an  imperceptible  advance, 
Came  the  dim  evidence  of  outer  things, 
Seen — darkly  and  imperfectly — yet  seen 
The  walls  surrounding  me,  and  I,  alone. 
That  pedestal — that  curtain — then  a  voice 
That  called  on  Galatea  !     At  that  word, 
Which  seemed  to  shake  my  marble  to  the  core, 
That  which  was  dim  before,  came  evident. 
Sounds,  that  had  hummed  around  me,  indistinct, 
Vague,  meaningless — seemed  to  resolve  themselves 
Into  a  language  I  could  understand ; 
I  felt  my  frame  pervaded  by  a  glow 
That  seemed  to  thaw  my  marble  into  flesh ; 
Its  cold  hard  substance  throbbed  with  active  life, 
My  limbs  grew  supple  and  I  moved — I  lived  ! 
Lived  in  the  ecstasy  of  new-born  life  ! 
Lived  in  the  love  of  him  that  fashioned  me  ! 
Lived  in  a  thousand  tangled  thoughts  of  hope, 
Love,  gratitude — thoughts  that  resolved  themselves 
Into  one  word,  that  word,  Pygmalion  !  [Kneels  to  him. 

Pyg.     I  have  no  words  to  tell  thee  of  my  joy, 
O  woman — perfect  in  thy  loveliness  ! 

Gal.     What  is  that  word  ?     Am  I  a  woman  ? 


254     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Pyg.  Yes. 

Gal.     Art  thou  a  woman  ? 

Pyg.  No,  I  am  a  man. 

Gal.     What  is  a  man  ? 

Pyg.  A  being  strongly  framed, 

To  wait  on  woman,  and  protect  her  from 
All  ills  that  strength  and  courage  can  avert; 
To  work  and  toil  for  her,  that  she  may  rest ; 
To  weep  and  mourn  for  her,  that  she  may  laugh  ; 
To  fight  and  die  for  her,  that  she  may  live  ! 

Gal.   [after  a  pause].     I'm  glad  I  am  a  woman. 

Pyg.  So  am  I.  [They  sit. 

Gal.     That  I  escape  the  pains  thou  hast  to  bear  ? 

Pyg.     That  I  may  undergo  those  pains  for  thee. 

Gal.     With  whom  then  wouldst  thou  fight  ? 

Pyg.  With  any  man 

Whose  deed  or  word  gave  Galatea  pain. 

Gal.     Then  there  are  other  men  in  this  strange  world  ? 

Pyg .     There  are,  indeed  ! 

Gal.  And  other  women  ? 

Pyg.   [taken  aback~\ .      Yes  ; 
Though  for  the  moment  I'd  forgotten  it ! 
Yes,  other  women. 

Gal.  And  for  all  of  these 

Men  work,  and  toil,  and  mourn,  and  weep,  and  fight  ? 

Pyg.     It  is  man's  duty,  if  he's  called  upon, 
To  fight  for  all — he  works  for  those  he  loves. 

Gal.     Then  by  thy  work  I  know  thou  lovest  me. 

Pyg.     Indeed,  I  love  thee.  [Embraces  her. 

Gal.     With  what  kind  of  love  ? 

Pyg.     I  love  thee  [recollecting  himself  and  releasing  her]  as 
a  sculptor  loves  his  work  ! 
\_Aside^\     There  is  a  diplomacy  in  that  reply. 

Gal.     My  love  is  different  in  kind  to  thine : 
I  am  no  sculptor,  and  I've  done  no  work, 
Yet  I  do  love  thee  :  say — what  love  is  mine  ? 

Pyg.     Tell  me  its  symptoms,  then  I'll  answer  thee. 

Gal.     Its  symptoms  ?     Let  me  call  them  as  they  come. 
A  sense  that  I  am  made  by  thee  for  thee  ; 
That  I've  no  will  that  is  not  wholly  thine; 


Pygmalion   and  Galatea         255 

That  I've  no  thought,  no  hope,  no  enterprise 
That  does  not  own  thee  as  its  sovereign  ; 
That  I  have  life,  that  I  may  live  for  thee, 
That  I  am  thine — that  thou  and  I  are  one. 
What  kind  of  love  is  that  ? 

Pyg.  A  kind  of  love 

That  I  shall  run  some  risk  in  dealing  with  ! 

Gal.     And  why,  Pygmalion  ? 

Pyg.  Such  love  as  thine 

A  man  may  not  receive,  except  indeed 
From  one  who  is,  or  is  to  be,  his  wife. 

Gal.     Then  7  will  be  thy  wife  ! 

Pyg.  That  may  not  be  ; 

I  have  a  wife — the  gods  allow  but  one. 

Gal.     Why  did  the  gods  then  send  me  here  to  thee  ? 

Pyg.     I  cannot  say — unless  to  punish  me 
For  unreflecting  and  presumptuous  prayer  ! 
I  prayed  that  thou  shouldst  live — I  have  my  prayer, 
And  now  I  see  the  awful  consequence 
That  must  attend  it ! 

Gal.  Yet  thou  lovest  me  ? 

Pyg.     Who  could  look  on  that  face  and  stifle  love  ? 

Gal.     Then  I  am  beautiful  ? 

Pyg.  Indeed  thou  art. 

Gal.     I  wish  that  I  could  look  upon  myself, 
But  that's  impossible. 

Pyg.  Not  so  indeed, 

This  mirror  will  reflect  thy  face.     Behold  ! 

\Hands  her  a  mirror. 

Gal.     How  beautiful  !   I'm  very  glad  to  know 
That  both  our  tastes  agree  so  perfectly ; 
Why,  my  Pygmalion,  I  did  not  think 
That  aught  could  be  more  beautiful  than  thou, 
Till  I  beheld  myself.     Believe  me,  love, 
I  could  look  in  this  mirror  all  day  long — 
So  I'm  a  woman  ! 

Pyg-  There's  no  doubt  of  that ! 

Gal.     Oh  happy  maid  to  be  so  passing  fair  ! 
And  happier  still  Pygmalion,  who  can  gaze, 
At  will,  upon  so  beautiful  a  face  ! 


256     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Pyg.     Hush  !   Galatea — in  thine  innocence 
Thou  sayest  things  that  others  would  reprove. 

Gal.     Indeed,  Pygmalion  ;  then  it  is  wrong 
To  think  that  one  is  exquisitely  fair  ? 

Pyg.     Well,  Galatea,  it's  a  sentiment 
That  every  other  woman  shares  with  thee ; 
They  think  it — but  they  keep  it  to  themselves. 

Gal.     And  is  thy  wife  as  beautiful  as  I  ? 

Pyg.     No,  Galatea,  for  in  forming  thee 
I  took  her  features — lovely  in  themselves — 
And  in  the  marble  made  them  lovelier  still. 

Gal.  [disappointed].     Oh  !  then  I'm  not  original? 

Pyg.     Well— no— 
That  is — thou  hast  indeed  a  prototype 
But  though  in  stone  thou  didst  resemble  her, 
In  life  the  difference  is  manifest. 

Gal.     I'm  very  glad  I'm  lovelier  than  she: 
And  am  I  better  ? 

Pyg.     That  I  do  not  know. 

Gal.     Then  she  has  faults  ? 

Pyg.  But  very  few  indeed; 

Mere  trivial  blemishes,  that  serve  to  show 
That  she  and  I  are  of  one  common  kin. 
I  love  her  all  the  better  for  such  faults  ! 

Gal.   [after  a  pause].     Tell  me  some  faults  and 
I'll  commit  them  now. 

Pyg.     There  is  no  hurry  ;  they  will  come  in  time ; 
Though  for  that  matter,  it's  a  grievous  sin 
To  sit  as  lovingly  as  we  sit  now. 

Gal.     Is  sin  so  pleasant  ?     If  to  sit  and  talk 
As  we  are  sitting,  be  indeed  a  sin, 
Why  I  could  sin  all  day  !      But  tell  me  love, 
Is  this  great  fault  that  I'm  committing  now, 
The  kind  of  fault  that  only  serves  to  show 
That  thou  and  I  are  one  of  common  kin  ? 

Pyg.     Indeed,  I'm  very  much  afraid  it  is. 

Gal.     And  dost  thou  love  me  better  for  such  fault  ? 

Pyg.     Where  is  the  mortal  that  could  answer  "  no  "  ? 

Gal.     Why  then  I'm  satisfied,  Pygmalion; 
Thy  wife  and  I  can  start  on  equal  terms. 


s 


Pygmalion   and  Galatea         257 

She  loves  thee  ? 

Pyg.  Very  much. 

Gal.  I'm  glad  of  that. 

I  like  thy  wife. 

Pyg.  And  why  ? 

Gal.  Our  tastes  agree. 

We  love  Pygmalion  well,  and  what  is  more, 
Pygmalion  loves  us  both.     I  like  thy  wife; 
I'm  sure  we  shall  agree. 

Pyg.   [aside~\.     I  doubt  it  much  ! 

Gal.     Is  she  within  ? 

Pyg.  No,  she  is  not  within. 

Gal.     But  she'll  come  back  ? 

Pyg.  Oh,  yes,  she  will  come  back. 

Gal.     How  pleased  she'll  be  to  know,  when  she  returns, 
That  there  was  some  one  here  to  fill  her  place  ! 

Pyg.  [drily~\.     Yes,    I    should    say    she'd    be  extremely 
pleased. 

Gal.     Why,  there  is  something  in  thy  voice  which  says 
That  thou  are  jesting  !     Is  it  possible 
To  say  one  thing  and  mean  another  ? 

Pyg.  Yes, 

It's  sometimes  done. 

Gal.     How  very  wonderful; 
So  clever ! 

Pyg.     And  so  very  useful. 

Gal.  Yes. 

Teach  me  the  art. 

Pyg.     The  art  will  come  in  time. 
My  wife  will  not  be  pleased ;  there — that's  the  truth. 

Gal.     I  do  not  think  that  I  shall  like  thy  wife. 
Tell  me  more  of  her. 

Pyg.     Well— 

Gal.  What  did  she  say 

When  last  she  left  thee  ? 

Pyg.  Humph  !     Well  let  me  see  : 

Oh  !  true,  she  gave  thee  to  me  as  my  wife, — 
Her  solitary  representative ; 
She  feared  I  should  be  lonely  till  she  came, 
And  counselled  me,  if  thoughts  of  love  should  come, 


258     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

To  speak  those  thoughts  to  thee,  as  I  am  wont 
To  speak  to  her. 

Gal.  That's  right. 

Pyg.  But  when  she  spoke 

Thou  wast  a  stone,  now  thou  art  flesh  and  blood, 
Which  makes  a  difference  ! 

Gal.  It's  a  strange  world  ! 

A  woman  loves  her  husband  very  much, 
And  cannot  brook  that  I  should  love  him  too ; 
She  fears  he  will  be  lonely  till  she  comes 
And  will  not  let  me  cheer  his  loneliness  ; 
She  bids  him  breathe  his  love  to  senseless  stone, 
And  when  that  stone  is  brought  to  life — be  dumb ! 
It's  a  strange  world — I  cannot  fathom  it ! 

(Pygmalion  and  Galatea,  London,  iSjll) 


Mans  Love  and  Woman's  Love    259 

MAN'S  LOVE  AND  WOMAN'S  LOVE 

WILLIAM  S.  GILBERT 

The  Garden  of  a  pretty  Country  Villa.  MR.  HENRY 
SPREADBROW  [aged  57],  Miss  JENNY  NORTHCOTT 
[aged  48]. 

SPREAD.  Not  changed  a  bit!  My  dear  Jane,  you 
really  must  allow  me  [they  shake  hands  again].  And 
now  tell  me,  how  is  Mr.  Braybrook  ? 

Jen.  [rather  surprised].  Oh,  Mr.  Braybrook  is  very 
well ;  I  expect  him  home  presently  ;  he  will  be  very  glad 
to  see  you,  for  he  has  often  heard  me  speak  of  you. 

Spread.  Has  he,  indeed  ?  It  will  give  me  the  greatest 
— the  very  greatest  possible  pleasure,  believe  me  [very  em- 
phatically], to  make  his  acquaintance. 

Jen.  [still  surprised  at  his  emphatic  manner].  I'm  sure  he 
will  be  delighted. 

Spread.     Now  tell  me  all  about  yourself.     Any  family  ? 

Jen.  [puzzled].     I  beg  your  pardon  ? 

Spread.     Any  family  ? 

Jen.     Mr.  Braybrook  ? 

Spread.     Well — yes. 

Jen.     Mr.  Braybrook  is  a  bachelor. 

Spread.  A  bachelor  ?  Then  let  me  understand — am  I 
not  speaking  to  Mrs.  Braybrook  ? 

Jen.  No,  indeed  you  are  not !  Ha !  ha !  [Much 
amused.]  Mr.  Braybrook  is  my  nephew;  the  place  be- 
longs to  him  now. 

Spread.  Oh  !  then  my  dear  Jane,  may  I  ask  who  you 
are  ? 

Jen.     I  am  not  married. 

Spread.     Not  married  ! 

Jen.     No ;  I  keep  house  for  my  nephew. 

Spread.  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  sit  there  and  look  me 
in  the  face  and  tell  me,  after  thirty  years,  that  you  are  still 
Jane  Northbrook  ? 


260     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Jen.   [rather  hurt  at  the  mistake],      Northcott. 

Spread.  Northcott,  of  course.  I  beg  your  pardon — I 
should  have  said  Northcott.  And  you  are  not  Mrs.  Bray- 
brook  ?  You  are  not  even  married !  Why,  what  were 
they  about — what  were  they  about  ?  Not  married  !  Well, 
now,  do  you  know,  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that.  I  am 
really  more  sorry  and  disappointed  than  I  can  tell  you. 
[She  looks  surprised  and  hurt]  You'd  have  made  an  ad- 
mirable wife,  Jane,  and  an  admirable  mother.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  sorry  I  am  to  find  that  you  are  still  Jane  North- 
brook — I  should  say,  Northcott. 

Jen.  The  same  in  name — much  changed  in  everything 
else.  [Sighing.] 

Spread.  Changed  ?  Not  a  bit — I  won't  hear  of  it.  I 
knew  you  the  moment  I  saw  you  !  We  are  neither  of  us 
changed.  Mellowed  perhaps — a  little  mellowed,  but  what 
of  that  ?  Who  shall  say  that  the  blossom  is  pleasanter  to 
look  upon  than  the  fruit  ?  Not  I  for  one,  Jane — not  I  for 
one. 

Jen.  Time  has  dealt  very  kindly  with  us,  but  we're  old 
folks  now,  Henry  Spreadbrow.  [.£/V«.] 

Spread.  I  won't  allow  it,  Jane — I  won't  hear  of  it. 
[-ft/V^j.]  What  constitutes  youth  ?  A  head  of  hair  ? 
Not  at  all ;  I  was  as  bald  as  an  egg  at  five  and  twenty — 
babies  are  always  bald.  Eyesight  ?  Some  people  are  born 
blind.  Years  ?  Years  are  an  arbitrary  impertinence.  Am 
I  an  old  man,  are  you  an  old  woman,  because  the  earth  con- 
tinues to  hurry  round  the  sun  in  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  days  ?  Why,  Saturn  can't  do  it  in  thirty  years.  If  I 
had  been  born  on  Saturn  I  should  be  two  years  old,  ma'am 
— a  public  nuisance  in  petticoats.  Let  us  be  thankful  that 
I  was  not  born  on  Saturn.  No — no,  as  long  as  I  can  ride 
to  cover  twice  a  week,  walk  my  five  and  twenty  miles 
without  turning  a  hair,  go  to  bed  at  twelve,  get  up  at  six, 
turn  into  a  cold  tub  and  like  it,  I'm  a  boy,  Jane — a  boy — a 
boy  ! 

Jen.     And  you  are  still  unmarried  ? 

Spread.  I  ?  Oh,  dear,  yes — very  much  so.  No  time 
to  think  of  marriage.  Plenty  of  opportunity,  mind,  but 
no  leisure  to  avail  myself  of  it.  I've  had  a  bustling  time 


Man's  Love  and  Woman  s  Love    261 

of  it,  I  assure  you,  Jane,  working  hard  at  the  Bar  and  on 
the  Bench,  with  some  success — with  some  success ;  [sits 
again]  and  now  that  I've  done  my  work,  I  throw  myself 
back  in  my  easy  chair,  fold  my  hands,  cross  my  legs,  and 
prepare  to  enjoy  myself.  Life  is  before  me,  and  I'm  going 
to  begin  it.  Ha,  ha !  And  so  we  are  really  Jane  North- 
cott  still  ? 

Jen.     Still  Jane  Northcott. 

Spread.  I'm  indignant  to  hear  it — I  assure  you  that  I 
am  positively  indignant  to  hear  it.  You  would  have  made 
some  fellow  so  infernally  happy  ;  [raw]  I'm  sorry  for  that 
fellow's  sake— I  don't  know  him,  but  still  I  am  sorry.  Ah, 
I  wish  I  had  remained  in  England.  I  do  wish,  for  the 
very  first  time  since  I  left  it,  that  I  had  remained  in 
England. 

Jen.     Indeed  !     And  why  ? 

Spread.  Why  ?  Because  I  should  have  done  my  best 
to  remove  that  reproach  from  society.  I  should  indeed, 
Jane  !  Ha,  ha  !  After  all,  it  don't  much  matter,  for  you 
wouldn't  have  had  me.  Oh  yes!  you  had  no  idea  of  it; 
but,  do  you  know,  I've  a  great  mind  to  tell  you — I  will  tell 
you.  Do  you  know,  I  was  in  love  with  you  at  one  time. 
Boy  and  girl,  you  know — boy  and  girl.  Ha,  ha !  You'd 
no  idea  of  it,  but  I  was ! 

Jen.  [in  wonder~\.     Oh,  yes ;   I  knew  it  very  well. 

Spread,  [much  astonished  \.  You  knew  it  ?  You  knew 
that  I  was  attached  to  you  ! 

Jen.     Why,  of  course  I  did. 

Spread.  Did  you,  indeed  !  Bless  me,  you  don't  say  so  ! 
Now  that's  amazingly  curious.  Leave  a  woman  alone  to 
find  that  out !  It's  instinctive,  positively  instinctive. 
Now,  my  dear  Jane,  I'm  a  very  close  student  of  human 
nature,  and  in  pursuit  of  that  study  I  should  like  above  all 
things  to  know  by  what  signs  you  detected  my  secret  ad- 
miration for  you.  [  Takes  her  hand.~\ 

Jen.  Why,  bless  the  man  !  There  was  no  mystery  in 
the  matter !  You  told  me  all  about  it ! 

Spread.     I  told  you  all  about  it ! 

Jen.     Certainly  you  did — here,  in  this  garden. 

Spread.     That  I  admired  you — loved  you  ? 


262     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

Jen.  Most  assuredly  !  Surely  you've  not  forgotten  it. 
\He  drops  her  hand.]  I  haven't. 

Spread.  I  remember  that  I  had  the  impertinence  to  be 
very  fond  of  you.  I  forgot  that  I  had  the  impertinence  to 
tell  you  so.  I  remember  it  now.  I  made  a  fool  of  myself. 
I  remember  it  by  that.  I  told  you  that  I  adored  you,  didn't 
I  ? — that  you  were  as  essential  to  me  as  the  air  I  breathed 
— that  it  was  impossible  to  support  existence  without  you — 
that  your  name  should  be  the  most  hallowed  of  earthly 
words,  and  so  forth.  Ha,  ha !  my  dear  Jane,  before  I'd 
been  a  week  on  board  I  was  saying  the  same  thing  to  a 
middle-aged  governess  whose  name  has  entirely  escaped 
me.  \_She  has  exhibited  signs  of  pleasure  during  the  earlier 
part  of  this  speech,  and  disappointment  at  the  last  two  lines.] 
What  fools  we  make  of  ourselves ! 

Jen.     And  of  others  ! 

Spread.  Oh,  I  meant  it,  Jane ;  I  meant  every  word  I 
said  to  you. 

Jen.     And  the  governess  ? 

Spread.  And  the  governess !  I  would  have  married 
you,  Jane. 

Jen.     And  the  governess  ? 

Spread.  And  the  governess  !  I'd  have  married  her,  if 
she  had  accepted  me — but  she  didn't.  Perhaps  it  was  as 
well — she  was  a  widow  with  five  children — I  cursed  my 
destiny  at  the  time,  but  I've  forgiven  it  since.  I  talked  of 
blowing  out  my  brains.  I'm  glad  I  didn't  do  it,  as  I've 
found  them  useful  in  my  profession.  Ha  !  ha  !  [Looking 
round;  JENNY  stands  watching  him.]  The  place  has 
changed  a  good  deal  since  my  time — improved — improved 
— we've  all  three  improved.  I  don't  quite  like  this  tree, 
though — it's  in  the  way.  What  is  it  ?  A  kind  of  beech, 
isn't  it  ? 

Jen.     No,  it's  a  sycamore. 

Spread.  Ha !  I  don't  understand  English  trees — but 
it's  a  curious  place  for  a  big  tree  like  this,  just  outside  the 
drawing-room  window.  Isn't  it  in  the  way  ? 

Jen.     It  is  rather  in  the  way. 

Spread.  I  don't  like  a  tree  before  a  window,  it  checks 
the  current  of  fresh  air,  don't  you  find  that  ? 


Jen.     It  does  check  the  current  of  fresh  air. 

Spread.  Then  the  leaves  blow  into  the  house  in  au- 
tumn, and  that's  a  nuisance — and  besides,  it  impedes  the 
view. 

Jen.     It  is  certainly  open  to  these  objections. 

Spread.  Then  cut  it  down,  my  dear  Jane.  Why  don't 
you  cut  it  down  ? 

Jen.  Cut  it  down  !  I  wouldn't  cut  it  down  for  worlds  ! 
That  tree  is  identified  in  my  mind  with  many  happy 
recollections. 

Spread.  Remarkable  the  influence  exercised  by  associa- 
tions over  a  woman's  mind.  Observe — you  take  a  house, 
mainly  because  it  commands  a  beautiful  view.  You  apportion 
the  rooms  principally  with  reference  to  that  view.  You  lay 
out  your  garden  at  great  expense  to  harmonize  with  that 
view,  and,  having  brought  that  view  into  the  very  best  of 
all  possibile  conditions  for  the  full  enjoyment  of  it,  you 
allow  a  gigantic  and  wholly  irrelevant  tree  to  block  it  all 
out  for  the  sake  of  the  sentimental  ghost  of  some  dead  and 
gone  sentimental  reality  !  Take  my  advice  and  have  it 
down.  If  I  had  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  you  would  never 
have  planted  it.  I  shouldn't  have  allowed  it ! 

Jen.  You  had  so  much  to  do  with  it  that  it  was  planted 
at  your  suggestion. 

Spread.     At  mine  ?     Never  saw  it  before  in  my  life. 

Jen.  We  planted  it  together  thirty  years  ago — the  day 
you  sailed  for  India. 

Spread.  It  appears  to  me  that  that  was  a  very  eventful 
day  in  my  career.  We  planted  it  together !  I  have  no 
recollection  of  ever  having  planted  a  gigantic  sycamore  any- 
where. And  we  did  it  together  !  Why,  it  would  take  a 
dozen  men  to  move  it. 

Jen.     It  was  a  sapling  then — you  cut  it  for  me. 

Spread,  [suddenly  and  with  energy].  From  the  old  syca- 
more in  the  old  garden  at  Hampstead  !  Why,  I  remember; 
I  went  to  London  expressly  to  get  it  for  you.  [ Laughing 
— sitting  on  her  left^\  And  the  next  day  I  called  to  say 
good-bye,  and  I  found  you  planting  it,  and  I  helped  ;  and 
as  I  was  helping  I  found  an  opportunity  to  seize  your  hand. 
[Does  so.]  I  grasped  it — pressed  it  to  my  lips — [does  ;0],  and 


264     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

said,  "  My  dear,  dear  Jenny  "  [be  drops  her  band  suddenly} 
and  so  forth.  Never  mind  what  I  said — but  I  meant  it — I 
meant  it !  [Laughs  heartily — she  joins  him,  but  her  laughter  is 
evidently  forced — eventually  she  shows  signs  of  tears,  which 
he  doesn't  notice.]  It  all  comes  back  with  a  distinctness 
which  is  absolutely  photographic.  I  begged  you  to  give 
me  a  flower — you  gave  me  one — a  sprig  of  geranium. 

Jen.     Mignonette. 

Spread.  Was  it  mignonette  ?  I  think  you're  right — it 
was  mignonette.  I  seized  it — pressed  it  to  my  trembling 
lips — placed  it  next  my  fluttering  heart,  and  swore  that 
come  what  might  I  would  never,  never  part  with  it ! — I 
wonder  what  I  did  with  that  flower ! — And  then  I  took  one 
from  my  buttonhole — begged  you  to  take  it — you  took  it, 
and — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — you  threw  it  down  carelessly  on  the 
table  and  thought  no  more  about  it,  you  heartless  creature 
— ha,  ha,  ha !  Oh,  I  was  very  angry  !  I  remember  it 
perfectly  ;  it  was  a  camellia. 

Jen.   [half  crying  aside~\.     Not  a  camellia,  I  think. 

Spread.     Yes,  a  camellia,  a  large  white  camellia. 

Jen.     I'm  sure  it  was  a  rose  ! 

Spread.     No,  I'm  sure  it  was  a  camellia. 

Jen.  [in  tears~\.  Indeed — indeed  it  was  a  rose.  [Pro- 
duces a  withered  rose  from  a  pocket-book — he  is  very  much  im- 
pressed— looks  at  it  and  her,  and  seems  much  affected^ 

Spread.  Why  Jane,  my  dear  Jane,  you  don't  mean  to 
say  that  this  is  the  very  flower? 

Jen.     That  is  the  very  flower.     [Rising."] 

Spread.  Strange  !  You  seemed  to  attach  no  value  to  it 
when  I  gave  it  to  you,  you  threw  it  away  as  something 
utterly  insignificant ;  and  when  I  leave,  you  pick  it  up, 
and  keep  it  for  thirty  years  !  [Rising."]  My  dear  Jane, 
how  like  a  woman  ! 

Jen.  And  you  seized  the  flower  I  gave  you — pressed  it 
to  your  lips,  and  swore  that  wherever  your  good  or  ill  for- 
tune might  carry  you,  you  would  never  part  with  it ;  and — 
and  you  quite  forget  what  became  of  it !  My  dear  Harry, 
how  like  a  man  ! 

Spread.  I  was  deceived,  my  dear  Jane, — deceived  !  I 
had  no  idea  that  you  attached  so  much  value  to  my  flower. 


Man  s  Love  and  U^oman  s  Love    265 

Jen.     We  were  both  deceived,  Harry  Spreadbrow. 

Spread.  Then  is  it  possible  that  in  treating  me  as  you 
did,  Jane,  you  were  acting  a  part  ? 

Jen.  We  were  both  acting  parts — but  the  play  is  over, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it.  \_With  assumed  cheerfulness^  Let 
us  talk  of  something  else. 

Spread.  No,  no,  Janet,  the  play  is  not  over — we  will 
talk  of  nothing  else — the  play  is  not  nearly  over.  [Music 
in  orchestra,  "  John  Anderson  my  Jo"]  My  dear  Jane — 
[rising  and  taking  her  hand],  My  very  dear  Jane — believe 
me,  for  I  speak  from  my  very  hardened  old  heart,  so  far 
from  the  play  being  over,  the  serious  interest  is  only  just 
beginning.  \_He  kisses  her  hand — they  walk  toward  the 
house.] 

(Sweethearts,  London, 


266     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


TU  QUOQUE 

AUSTIN  DOBSON 

AN  IDYLL  IN  THE  CONSERVATORY 


" —  romprons — nous 
Ou  tie  romprons — nous  pas  ?  " 

— Le  Depit  Amoreux. 

AT ELLIE.  If  I  were  you,  when  ladies  at  the  play,  sir, 

Beckon  and  nod,  a  melodrama  through, 
I  would  not  turn  abstractedly  away  sir, 
If  I  were  you  ! 


Frank.     If  I  were  you,  when  persons  I  affected 
Wait  for  three  hours  to  take  me  down  to  Kew, 

I  would,  at  least,  pretend  I  recollected, 
If  I  were  you  ! 

Nellie.     If  I  were  you,  when  ladies  are  so  lavish, 
Sir,  as  to  keep  me  every  waltz  but  two, 

I  would  not  dance  with  odious  Miss  McTavish 
If  I  were  you  ! 


Frank.     If  I  were  you,  who  vow  you  cannot  suffer 
Whiff  of  the  best,  the  mildest  "  honey-dew," 

I  would  not  dance  with  smoke-consuming  Puffer, 
If  I  were  you  ! 


Nellie.     If  I  were  you,  I  would  not,  sir,  be  bitter, 
Even  to  write  the  "  Cynical  Review  !  " 

Frank.     No,  I  should  doubtless  find  flirtation  fitter, 
If  I  were  you  ! 


Tu   i^uoque  267 


Nellie.     Really  !  You  would  ?  Why,  Frank,  you're  quite 
delightful,  — 

Hot  as  Othello,  and  as  black  of  hue  ; 
Borrow  my  fan,  I  would  not  look  so  frightful^ 

If  I  were  you  ! 

Frank.     "  It  is  the  cause."      I  mean  your  chaperon  is 
Bringing  some  well-curled  juvenile.     Adieu  ! 

7  shall  retire.     I'd  spare  that  poor  Adonis, 
If  I  were  you  ! 


Nellie.     Go,  if  you  will.     At  once  !     And  by  express,  sir  ! 

Where  shall  it  be  ?     To  China — or  Peru? 
Go.     I  should  leave  inquirers  my  address,  sir, 

If  I  were  you  ! 


Frank.     No, —  I  remain.     To  stay  and  fight  a  duel 
Seems,  on  the  whole,  the  proper  thing  to  do  — 

Ah,  you  are  strong, —  I  would  not  then  be  cruel, 
If  I  were  you  ' 

Nellie.     One  does  not  like  one's  feelings  to  be  doubted, — 
Frank.     One  does  not  like  one's  friends  to  misconstrue,  — 

Nellie.     I  confess  that  I  a  wee-bit  pouted  ?  — 
Frank.     I  should  admit  that  I  was  pique,  too. 

Nellie.     Ask  me  to  dance.     I'd  say  no  more  about  it, 
If  I  were  you  !  \Walt-z, —  Exeunt. 

(Old  World  Idylls^  London^  1884.) 


268     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 


'  I AHE  ladye  she  stood  at  her  lattice  high, 

Wi'  her  doggie  at  her  feet ; 
Thorough  the  lattice  she  can  spy 
The  passers  in  the  street. 

"  There's  one  that  standeth  at  the  door, 
And  tirleth  at  the  pin  : 

Now  speak  and  say,  my  popinjay, 
If  I  salllethim  in." 

Then  up  and  spake  the  popinjay 

That  flew  abune  her  head  : 

"  Gae  let  him  in  that  tirls  the  pin  : 

He  cometh  thee  to  wed." 

0  when  he  cam'  the  parlour  in, 
A  woeful  man  was  he ! 

"  And  dinna  ye  ken  your  lover  agen, 
Sae  well  that  loveth  thee  ?  " 

"And  how  wad  I  ken  ye  loved  me,  Sir, 

That  have  been  sae  lang  away  ? 
And  how  wad  I  ken  ye  loved  me,  Sir  ? 
Ye  never  telled  me  sae." 

Said — "  Ladye  dear,"  and  the  salt,  salt  tear 

Cam'  runnin'  doon  his  cheek, 
"  I  have  sent  thee  tokens  of  my  love 
This  many  and  many  a  week. 

"  O  didna  ye  get  the  rings,  Ladye, 
The  rings  o'  the  gowd  sae  fine  ? 

1  wot  that  I  have  sent  to  thee 

Four  score,  four  score  and  nine." 


Burne-Jones . 


CUPID   AND    PSYCHE 


The   Lang   Coortin  269 

"  They  cam'  to  me,"  said  that  fair  ladye. 

"  Wow  they  were  flimsie  things  !  " 
Said — "  that  chain  o'  gowd,  my  doggie  to  howd, 
It  is  made  o'  thae  self-same  rings." 

"  And  didna  ye  get  the  locks,  the  locks, 

The  locks  o'  my  ain  black  hair, 
Whilk  I  sent  by  post,  whilk  I  sent  by  box, 
Whilk  I  sent  by  the  carrier  ?  " 

"  They  cam'  to  me,"  said  that  fair  ladye ; 

"  And  I  prithee  send  nae  mair !  " 
Said — "that  cushion  sae  red,  for  my  doggie's  head, 
It  is  stuffed  wi'  thae  locks  of  hair." 

"  And  didna  ye  get  the  letter,  Ladye, 

Tied  wi'  a  silken  string, 
Whilk  I  sent  to  thee  frae  the  far  countrie, 
A  message  of  love  to  bring  ?  " 

"  It  cam'  to  me  frae  the  far  countrie 

Wi'  its  silken  string  and  a' ; 
But  it  wasna  prepaid,"  said  that  high-born  maid, 
"  Sae  I  gar'd  them  tak'  it  awa'." 

"  O  ever  alack  that  ye  sent  it  back, 

It  was  written  sae  clerkly  and  well ! 
Now  the   message   it  brought,  and  the  boon  that 

it  sought, 
I  must  even  say  it  mysel'." 

Then  up  and  spake  the  popinjay, 

Sae  wisely  counselled  he. 
"  Now  say  it  in  the  proper  way  : 
Gae  doon  upon  thy  knee  !  " 

The  lover  he  turned  baith  red  and  pale, 

Went  doon  upon  his  knee  : 

"  O  Ladye,  hear  the  waesome  tale 

That  must  be  told  to  thee  ! 


2jo     Love  in   Literature  and  Art 

"  For  five  lang  years,  and  five  lang  years, 

I  coorted  thee  by  looks ; 
By  nods  and  winks,  by  smiles  and  tears, 
As  I  had  read  in  books. 

"  For  ten  lang  years,  O  weary  hours  ! 

I  coorted  thee  by  signs ; 
By  sending  game,  by  sending  flowers, 
By  sending  Valentines. 

"  For  five  lang  years,  and  five  lang  years, 

I  have  dwelt  in  the  far  countrie, 
Till  that  thy  mind  should  be  inclined 
Mair  tenderly  to  me. 

"  Now  thirty  years  are  gane  and  past, 

I  am  come  frae  a  foreign  land : 
I  am  come  to  tell  thee  my  love  at  last  — 
O  Ladye,  gie  me  thy  hand ! " 

The  ladye  she  turned  not  pale  nor  red, 

But  she  smiled  a  pitiful  smile : 
u  Sic'  a  coortin'  as  yours,  my  man,"  she  said, 
"  Takes  a  lang  and  weary  while  !  " 

And  out  and  laughed  the  popinjay, 

A  laugh  of  bitter  scorn  : 
41  A  coortin'  done  in  sic'  a  way, 
It  ought  not  to  be  borne  !  " 

Wi'  that  the  doggie  barked  aloud, 

And  up  and  doon  he  ran, 
And  tugged  and  strained  his  chain  o'  gowd, 

All  for  to  bite  the  man. 

"  O  hush  thee,  gentle  popinjay  ! 
Oh  hush  thee,  doggie  dear ! 
There  is  a  word  I  fain  wad  say, 
It  needeth  he  should  hear !  " 


The   Lang   Coortin 


Aye  louder  screamed  that  ladye  fair 
To  drown  her  doggie's  bark  : 

Ever  the  lover  shouted  mair 
To  make  that  ladye  hark  : 

Shrill  and  more  shrill  the  popinjay 

Upraised  his  angry  squall  : 
I  trow  the  doggie's  voice  that  day 

Was  louder  than  them  all  ! 

The  serving-men  and  serving-maids 

Sat  by  the  kitchen  fire  : 
They  heard  sic'  a  din  the  parlour  within 

As  made  them  much  admire. 

Out  spake  the  boy  in  buttons 

(I  ween  he  wasna  thin), 
"  Now  wha  will  tae  the  parlour  gae, 
And  stay  this  deadlie  din  ?  " 

And  they  have  taen  a  kerchief, 

Casted  their  kevils  in, 
For  wha  should  tae  the  parlour  gae 

And  stay  that  deadlie  din. 

When  on  the  boy  the  kevil  fell 

To  stay  the  fearsome  noise, 
"  Gae  in,"  they  cried,  u  whate'er  betide, 
Thou  prince  of  button-boys  !  " 

Syne,  he  hath  taen  a  supple  cane 
To  swinge  that  dog  sae  fat  : 

The  doggie  yowled,  the  doggie  howled 
The  louder  for  aye  that. 

Syne,  he  hath  taen  a  mutton-bane  — 
The  doggie  ceased  his  noise, 

And  followed  doon  the  kitchen  stair 
That  prince  of  button-boys  ! 


272     Love   in    Literature   and  Art 

Then  sadly  spake  that  ladye  fair, 

Wi'  a  frown  upon  her  brow : 
"  O  dearer  to  me  is  my  sma'  doggie 
Than  a  dozen  sic'  as  thou  ! 

"  Nae  use,  nae  use  for  sighs  and  tears : 

Nae  use  at  all  to  fret : 
Sin'  ye've  bided  sae  well  for  thirty  years, 
Ye  may  bide  a  wee  langer  yet !  " 

Sadly,  sadly  he  crossed  the  floor 

And  tirled  at  the  pin  : 
Sadly  went  he  through  the  door 

Where  sadly  he  cam'  in. 

"  O  gin  I  had  a  popinjay 

To  fly  abune  my  head, 
To  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  say, 
I  had  by  this  been  wed. 

"  O  gin  I  find  anither  ladye," 

He  said  wi'  sighs  and  tears, 
"I  wot  my  coortin'  sail  not  be 

Anither  thirty  years : 

"  For  gin  I  find  a  ladye  gay, 

Exactly  to  my  taste, 
I'll  pop  the  question,  aye  or  nay, 
On  twenty  years  at  maist." 

(Rhyme  and  Reason,  London,  1884..} 


A   Soldier  s    Wooing  273 


A  SOLDIER'S  WOOING 

RUDYARD  KIPLING 

""T\ID  I  ever  tell   you  how  Dinah    Shadd  came  to  be 
^"^     wife  av  mine  ?  " 

I  dissembled  a  burning  anxiety  that  I  had  felt  for  some 
months — ever  since  Dinah  Shadd,  the  strong,  the  patient, 
and  the  infinitely  tender,  had,  of  her  own  good  love  and 
free  will,  washed  a  shirt  for  me,  moving  in  a  barren  land 
where  washing  was  not. 

"  I  can't  remember,"  I  said,  casually.  "  Was  it  before 
or  after  you  made  love  to  Annie  Bragin,  and  got  no  satis- 
faction ? " 

The  story  of  Annie  Bragin  is  written  in  another  place. 
It  is  one  of  the  many  episodes  in  Mulvaney's  checkered 
career. 

"  Before — before — long  before  was  that  business  av 
Annie  Bragin  an'  the  corp'ril's  ghost.  Never  woman  was 
the  worse  for  me  whin  I  had  married  Dinah.  There's  a 
time  for  all  things,  an'  I  know  how  to  kape  all  things  in 
place — barrin'  the  dhrink,  that  kapes  me  in  my  place,  wid 
no  hope  av  comin'  to  be  aught  else." 

"  Begin  at  the  beginning,"  I  insisted.  "  Mrs.  Mulvaney 
told  me  that  you  married  her  when  you  were  quartered  in 
Krab  Bokhar  barracks." 

"  An'  the  same  is  a  cess-pit,"  said  Mulvaney,  piously. 
"She  spoke  thrue,  did  Dinah.  'Twas  this  way. 
Wanst,  bein'  a  fool,  I  went  into  the  married  lines,  more 
for  the  sake  of  speakin'  to  our  ould  colour-sergint  Shadd 
than  for  any  thruck  wid  wimmen-folk.  I  was  a  corp'ril 
then — rejuced  aftherwards  ;  but  a  corp'ril  then.  I've  got  a 
photograft  av  mesilf  to  prove  ut.  4  You'll  take  a  cup  av 
tay  wid  us  ? '  sez  he.  c  I  will  that,'  I  sez  ;  c  tho'  tay  is  not 
my  divarsion.'  c  'Twud  be  better  for  you  if  ut  were,'  sez 
ould  Mother  Shadd.  An'  she  had  ought  to  know,  for 
Shadd,  in  the  ind  av  his  service,  dhrank  bung-full  each 
night. 


274     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

"  Wid  that  I  tuk  off  my  gloves — there  was  pipe-clay  in 
thim  so  that  they  stud  alone — an'  pulled  up  my  chair, 
lookin'  round  at  the  china  ornamints  an'  bits  av  things  in 
the  Shadds'  quarters.  They  were  things  that  belonged 
to  a  woman,  an'  no  camp  kit,  here  to-day  and  dishipated 
next.  'You're  comfortable  in  this  place,  sergint,' sez  I. 
'  'Tis  the  wife  that  did  ut,  boy,'  sez  he,  pointin'  the  stem 
av  his  pipe  to  ould  Mother  Shadd,  an'  she  smacked  the  top 
av  his  bald  head  upon  the  compliment.  'That  manes  you 
want  money,'  sez  she. 

"  An'  thin — an'  thin  whin  the  kettle  was  to  be  filled, 
Dinah  came  in — my  Dinah — her  sleeves  rowled  up  to  the 
elbow,  an'  her  hair  in  a  gowlden  glory  over  her  forehead, 
the  big  blue  eyes  beneath  twinklin'  like  stars  on  a  frosty 
night,  an'  the  tread  of  her  two  feet  lighter  than  waste 
paper  from  the  colonel's  basket  in  ord'ly-room  when  ut's 
emptied.  Bein'  but  a  shlip  av  a  girl,  she  went  pink  at 
seein'  me,  an'  I  twisted  me  mustache  an'  looked  at  a 
picture  forninst  the  wall.  Never  show  a  woman  that  ye 
care  the  snap  av  a  finger  for  her,  an'  begad  she'll  come 
bleatin'  to  your  boot  heels." 

"  I  suppose  that's  why  you  followed  Annie  Bragin  till 
everybody  in  the  married  quarters  laughed  at  you,"  said  I, 
remembering  that  unhallowed  wooing,  and  casting  oft  the 
disguise  of  drowsiness. 

"  I'm  layin'  down  the  gineral  theory  av  the  attack,"  said 
Mulvaney,  driving  his  foot  into  the  dying  fire.  "  If  you 
read  the  '  Soldier's  Pocket-Book,'  which  never  any  soldier 
reads,  you'll  see  that  there  are  exceptions.  When  Dinah 
was  out  av  the  door  (an'  'twas  as  tho'  the  sunlight  had  gone 
too),  c  Mother  av  Hiven,  sergint ! '  sez  I,  'but  is  that  your 
daughter  ? '  '  I've  believed  that  way  these  eighteen  years,' 
sez  ould  Shadd,  his  eyes  twinklin'.  '  But  Mrs.  Shadd  has 
her  own  opinion,  like  ivry  other  woman.'  '  'Tis  wid  yours 
this  time,  for  a  mericle,'  sez  Mother  Shadd.  'Then  why, 
in  the  name  av  fortune,  did  I  never  see  her  before  ? '  sez  I. 
'  Bekaze  you've  been  thraipsin'  round  wid  the  married 
women  these  three  years  past.  She  was  a  bit  av  a  child  till 
last  year,  an'  she  shot  up  wid  the  spring,'  sez  ould  Mother 
Shadd.  '  I'll  thraipse  no  more,'  sez  I.  '  D'you  mane  that  ? ' 


A  Soldier  s    booing  275 

sez  ould  Mother  Shadd,  lookin'  at  me  sideways,  like  a  hen 
looks  at  a  hawk  whin  the  chickens  are  runnin'  free. 
4  Try  me,  an'  tell,'  sez  I.  Wid  that  I  pulled  on  my  gloves, 
dhrank  off  the  tea,  an'  wint  out  av  the  house  as  stiff  as  at 
gineral  p'rade,  for  well  I  knew  that  Dinah  Shadd's  eyes 
were  in  the  small  av  my  back  out  av  the  scullery  window. 
Faith,  that  was  the  only  time  I  mourned  I  was  not  a 
cav'lryman,  for  the  sake  av  the  spurs  to  jingle. 

"  I  wint  out  to  think,  an'  I  did  a  powerful  lot  av  thinkin', 
but  ut  all  came  round  to  that  shlip  av  a  girl  in  the  dotted 
blue  dhress,  wid  the  blue  eyes  an'  the  sparkil  in  them. 
Thin  I  kept  off  canteen,  an'  I  kept  to  the  married  quar- 
thers  or  near  by  on  the  chanst  av  meetin'  Dinah.  Did  I 
meet  her  ?  Oh,  my  time  past,  did  I  not,  wid  a  lump  in  my 
throat  as  big  as  my  valise,  an'  my  heart  goin'  like  a  farrier's 
forge  on  a  Saturday  mornin' !  'Twas  c  Good-day  to  ye, 
Miss  Dinah,'  an'  4  Good-day  t'you,  corp'ril,'  for  a  week  or 
two,  an'  divil  a  bit  further  could  I  get,  bekase  av  the  respict 
I  had  to  that  girl  that  I  cud  ha'  broken  betune  finger  an' 
thumb." 

Here  I  giggled  as  I  recalled  the  gigantic  figure  of  Dinah 
Shadd  when  she  handed  me  my  shirt. 

"  Ye  may  laugh,"  grunted  Mulvaney.  "  But  I'm 
speakin'  the  trut',  an'  'tis  you  that  are  in  fault.  Dinah 
was  a  girl  that  wud  ha'  taken  the  imperiousness  out  av  the 
Duchess  of  Clonmel  in  those  days.  Flower  hand,  foot  av 
shod  air,  an'  the  eyes  av  the  mornin'  she  had.  That  is 
my  wife  to-day — ould  Dinah,  an'  never  aught  else  than 
Dinah  Shadd  to  me. 

u  'Twas  after  three  weeks  standin'  off  an'  on,  an'  niver 
makin'  headway  excipt  through  the  eyes,  that  a  little 
drummer-boy  grinned  in  me  face  whin  I  had  admonished 
him  wid  the  buckle  av  my  belt  for  riotin'  all  over  the  place. 
'  An'  I'm  not  the  only  wan  that  doesn't  kape  to  barricks,' 
sez  he.  I  tuk  him  by  the  scruff  av  his  neck — my  heart 
was  hung  on  a  hair-trigger  those  days,  you  will  understand 
— an'  l  Out  wid  ut,'  sez  I,  '  or  I'll  lave  no  bone  av  you 
unbruk.'  '  Speak  to  Dempsey,'  sez  he,  howlin'.  l  Dempsey 
which,'  sez  I,  c  ye  unwashed  limb  av  Satan  ? '  '  Of  the 
Bobtailed  Dhragoons,'  sez  he.  '  He's  seen  her  home  from 


276     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

her  aunt's  house  in  the  civil  lines  four  times  this  fortnight.' 
'  Child,'  sez  I,  dhroppin'  him,  'your  tongue's  stronger  than 
your  body.  Go  to  your  quarters.  I'm  sorry  I  dhressed 
you  down.' 

"  At  that  I  went  four  ways  to  wanst  huntin'  Dempsey. 
I  was  mad  to  think  that  wid  all  my  airs  among  women  I 
shud  ha'  been  ch'ated  by  a  basin-faced  fool  av  a  cav'lry- 
man  not  fit  to  trust  on  a  mule  thrunk.  Presintly  I  found 
him  in  our  lines — the  Bobtails  was  quartered  next  us — 
an'  a  tallowy,  top-heavy  son  av  a  she-mule  he  was,  wid  his 
big  brass  spurs  an'  his  plastrons  on  his  epigastons  an'  all. 
But  he  niver  flinched  a  hair. 

'"A  word  wid  you,  Dempsey,'  sez  I.  'You've  walked 
wid  Dinah  Shadd  four  times  this  fortnight  gone.' 

"  'What's  that  to  you  ? '  sez  he.  '  I'll  walk  forty  times 
more,  an'  forty  on  top  av  that,  ye  shovel-futted,  clod- 
breakin',  infantry  lance-corp'ril.' 

"  Before  I  cud  gyard,  he  had  his  gloved  fist  home  on  me 
cheek,  an'  down  I  went  full  sprawl.  '  Will  that  content 
you  ? '  sez  he,  blowin'  on  his  knuckles  for  all  the  world 
like  a  Scots  Grays  orf 'cer.  l  Content  ? '  sez  I.  c  For  your 
own  sake,  man,  take  off  your  spurs,  peel  your  jackut,  and 
onglove.  'Tis  the  beginnin'  av  the  overture.  Stand  up  !  ' 

"He  stud  all  he  knew,  but  he  niver  peeled  his  jackut, 
an'  his  shoulders  had  no  fair  play.  I  was  fightin'  for 
Dinah  Shadd  an'  that  cut  on  me  cheek.  What  hope  had 
he  forninst  me  ?  c  Stand  up ! '  sez  I,  time  an'  again,  when 
he  was  beginnin'  to  quarter  the  ground,  an'  gyard  high 
an'  go  large.  '  This  isn't  ridin'-school,'  sez  I.  '  Oh, 
man,  stand  up,  an'  let  me  get  at  ye !  '  But  whin  I  saw  he 
wud  be  runnin'  about,  I  grup  his  shtock  in  me  left  an' 
his  waist-belt  in  me  right,  an'  swung  him  clear  to  me  right 
front,  head  undher,  he  hammerin'  me  nose  till  the  wind 
was  knocked  out  av  him  on  the  bare  ground.  'Stand  up,' 
sez  I,  '  or  I'll  kick  your  head  into  your  chest.'  An'  I 
wud  ha'  done  ut,  too,  so  ragin'  mad  I  was. 

"  '  Me  collar-bone's  bruk,'  sez  he.  '  Help  me  back  to 
lines.  I'll  walk  wid  her  no  more.'  So  I  helped  him 
back." 

u  And    was    his   collar-bone   broken  ? "     I  asked,   for  I 


A  Soldier  s    tf^ooing  277 

fancied    that    only  Learoyd  could    neatly  accomplish  that 
terrible  throw. 

"  He  pitched  on  his  left  shoulder-point.  It  was.  Next 
day  the  news  was  in  both  barracks  ;  an'  whin  I  met  Dinah 
Shadd  wid  a  cheek  like  all  the  reg'mintal  tailors'  samples, 
there  was  no  '  Good-mornin',  corp'ril,'  or  aught  else. 
lAn'  what  have  I  done,  Miss  Shadd,'  sez  I,  very  bould, 
plantin'  mesilf  forninst  her,  4  that  ye  should  not  pass  the 
time  of  day  ?  ' 

"'Ye've  half  killed  rough-rider  Dempsey,'  sez  she,  her 
dear  blue  eyes  fillin'  up. 

"  4  Maybe,'  sez  I.  '  Was  he  a  friend  av  yours  that  saw 
ye  home  four  times  in  a  fortnight  ?  ' 

"'Yes,'  sez  she,  very  bould;  but  her  mouth  was  down 
at  the  corners.  '  An' — an'  what's  that  to  you  ? ' 

"  '  Ask  Dempsey,'  sez  I,  purtendin'  to  go  away. 

"  c  Did  you  fight  for  me  then,  ye  silly  man  ? '  she  sez, 
tho'  she  knew  ut  all  along. 

" 4  Who  else  ? '  sez  I ;  an'  I  tuk  wan  pace  to  the  front. 

"  '  I  wasn't  worth  ut,'  sez  she,  fingerin'  her  apron. 

"  '  That's  for  me  to  say,'  sez  I.     '  Shall  I  say  ut  ? ' 

"'Yes,'  sez  she,  in  a  saint's  whisper;  an'  at  that  I  ex- 
plained mesilf;  an'  she  tould  me  what  ivry  man  that  is  a 
man,  an'  many  that  is  a  woman,  hears  wanst  in  his  life. 

"  4  But  what  made  ye  cry  at  startin',  Dinah,  darlin'  ? ' 
sez  I. 

" l  Your — your  bloody  cheek,'  sez  she,  duckin'  her  little 
head  down  on  my  sash  (I  was  on  duty  for  the  day),  an'  whim- 
perin'  like  a  sorrowful  angel. 

"  Now,  a  man  cud  take  that  two  ways.  I  tuk  ut  as 
pleased  me  best,  an'  my  first  kiss  wid  it.  Mother  av  inno- 
cence !  but  I  kissed  her  on  the  tip  av  the  nose  an'  undher 
the  eye,  an'  a  girl  that  lets  a  kiss  come  tumbleways  like 
that  has  never  been  kissed  before.  Take  note  av  that, 
sorr.  Thin  we  wint,  hand  in  hand,  to  ould  Mother  Shadd, 
like  two  little  childher,  an'  she  said  it  was  no  bad  thing ; 
an'  ould  Shadd  nodded  behind  his  pipe,  an'  Dinah  ran  away 
to  her  own  room.  That  day  I  throd  on  rollin'  clouds.  All 
earth  was  too  small  to  hould  me.  Begad,  I  cud  ha'  picked 
the  sun  out  av  the  sky  for  a  live  coal  to  me  pipe,  so  mag- 


278     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

nificent  I  was.  But  I  tuk  recruities  at  squad-drill,  an'  be- 
gan with  general  battalion  advance  whin  I  shud  ha'  been 
balance-steppin'  'em.  Eyah  !  that  day  !  that  day  !  " 

(The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd^  1888.) 


A  Happy   Ending  279 


A  HAPPY  ENDING 

JAMES  MATTHEW  BARRIE 

finest  thing  in  the  world  is  that  a  woman  can  pass 
through  anything,  and  remain  pure.  Mary  had  never 
been  put  to  the  test,  but  she  could  have  stood  it.  Her  soul 
spoke  in  her  face,  and  as  Rob  looked  at  her  the  sound  of 
his  own  voice  seemed  a  profanation.  Yet  Mary  was  not 
all  soul.  She  understood,  for  instance,  why  Rob  stammered 
so  much  as  he  took  her  hand,  and  she  was  glad  that  she 
had  on  her  green  habit  instead  of  the  black  one. 

Sir  Clement  Dowton  rode  forward  smartly  to  make  up 
on  Miss  Abinger,  and  saw  her  a  hundred  yards  before  him 
from  the  top  of  a  bump  which  the  road  climbs.  She  was 
leaning  forward  in  her  saddle  talking  to  a  man  whom  he 
recognized  at  once.  The  baronet's  first  thought  was  to 
ride  on,  but  he  drew  rein. 

"  I  have  had  my  chance  and  failed,"  he  said  to  himself 
grimly.  "Why  should  not  he  have  his  ?  " 

With  a  last  look  at  the  woman  he  loved,  Sir  Clement 
turned  his  horse,  and  so  rode  out  of  Mary  Abinger's  life. 
She  had  not  even  seen  him. 

"  Papa  has  been  out  shooting,"  she  said  to  Rob,  who  was 
trying  to  begin,  "and  I  am  on  my  way  to  meet  him.  Sir 
Clement  Dowton  is  with  me." 

She  turned  her  head  to  look  for  the  baronet,  and  Rob, 
who  had  been  aimlessly  putting  his  fingers  through  her 
horse's  mane,  started  at  the  mention  of  Sir  Clement's 
name. 

"  Miss  Abinger,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you 
one  question.  I  have  no  right  to  put  it,  but  Sir  Clement, 
he " 

"If  you  want  to  see  him,"  said  Mary,  "you  have  just 
come  in  time.  I  believe  he  is  starting  for  a  tour  of  the 
world  in  a  week  or  so." 

Rob  drew  a  heavy  breath,  and  from  that  moment  he 


280     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

liked  Dowton.  But  he  had  himself  to  think  of  at  present. 
He  remembered  that  he  had  another  question  to  ask  Miss 
Abinger. 

"  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I  saw  you,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  sitting  straight  in  her  saddle,  "  you 
never  came  to  the  houseboat  those  last  weeks.  I  suppose 
you  were  too  busy." 

"  That  was  not  what  kept  me  away,"  Rob  said.  "  You 
know  it  was  not." 

Mary  looked  behind  her  again. 

"  There  was  nothing  else,"  she  said ;  "  I  cannot  under- 
stand what  is  detaining  Sir  Clement." 

"  I  thought  — "  Rob  began. 

"You  should  not,"  said  Mary  looking  at  the  school- 
house. 

"  But  your  brother — "  Rob  was  saying,  when  he  paused, 
not  wanting  to  incriminate  Dick. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mary,  whose  intellect  was  very 
clear  to-day.  She  knew  why  Rob  stopped  short,  and  there 
was  a  soft  look  in  her  eyes  as  they  were  turned  upon  him. 

"  Your  brother  advised  me  to  come  north,"  Rob  said,  but 
Mary  did  not  answer.  "  I  would  not  have  done  so,"  he 
continued,  "  if  I  had  known  that  you  knew  I  stayed  away 
from  the  houseboat." 

"  I  think  I  must  ride  on,"  Mary  said. 

"  No,"  said  Rob,  in  a  voice  that  put  it  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. So  Mary  must  have  thought,  for  she  remained  there. 
"  You  thought  it  better,"  he  went  on  huskily,  "  that,  what- 
ever the  cause,  I  should  not  see  you  again." 

Mary  was  bending  her  riding-whip  into  a  bow. 

"  Did  you  not  ?  "  cried  Rob  a  little  fiercely. 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

"Then  why  did  you  do  it  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  didn't  do  anything,"  said  Mary. 

"  In  all  London,"  said  Rob,  speaking  at  a  venture, 
"  there  has  not  been  one  person  for  the  last  two  months  so 
miserable  as  myself." 

Mary's  eyes  wandered  from  Rob's  face  far  over  the 
heather.  There  might  be  tears  in  her  eyes  at  any  moment. 
The  colonel  was  looking. 


A  Happy  Ending  281 

"  That  stream,"  said  Rob  with  a  mighty  effort,  pointing 
to  the  distant  Whunny,  "  twists  round  the  hill  on  which  we 
are  now  standing,  and  runs  through  Thrums.  It  turns  the 
wheel  of  a  sawmill  there,  and  in  that  sawmill  I  was  born 
and  worked  with  my  father  for  the  great  part  of  my  life." 

"  I  have  seen  it,"  said  Mary,  with  her  head  turned  away. 
"  I  have  been  in  it." 

"  It  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill  that  my  sister's 
child  was  found  dead.  Had  she  lived  I  might  never  have 
seen  you." 

"  One  of  the  gamekeepers,"  said  Mary,  "  showed  me 
the  place  where  you  found  her  with  her  foot  in  the  water." 

"  I  have  driven  a  cart  through  this  glen  a  hundred  times," 
continued  Rob  doggedly.  "  You  see  that  wooden  shed  at 
the  schoolhouse ;  it  was  my  father  and  I  who  put  it  up. 
It  seems  but  yesterday  since  I  carted  the  boards  from 
Thrums." 

"The  dear  boards,"  murmured  Mary. 

"  Many  a  day  my  mother  has  walked  from  the  sawmill 
into  this  glen  with  my  dinner  in  a  basket." 

"  Good  mother,"  said  Mary. 

"  Now,"  said  Rob,  "  now  when  I  come  back  here  and 
see  you,  I  remember  what  I  am.  I  have  lived  for  you  from 
the  moment  I  saw  you,  but  however  hard  I  might  toil  for 
you  there  must  always  be  a  difference  between  us." 

He  was  standing  on  the  high  bank,  and  their  faces  were 
very  close.  Mary  shuddered. 

"  I  only  frighten  you,"  cried  Rob. 

Mary  raised  her  head,  and,  though  her  face  was  wet,  she 
smiled.  Her  hand  went  out  to  him,  but  she  noticed  it  and 
drew  it  back.  Rob  saw  it  too,  but  did  not  seek  to  take  it. 
They  were  looking  at  each  other  bravely.  His  eyes  pro- 
posed to  her,  while  he  could  not  say  a  word,  and  hers  ac- 
cepted him.  On  the  hills  men  were  shooting  birds. 

Rob  knew  that  Mary  loved  him.  An  awe  fell  upon  him. 
"  What  am  I  ?  "  he  cried,  and  Mary  put  her  hand  in  his. 
"  Don't  dear,"  she  said,  as  his  face  sank  on  it ;  and  he 
raised  his  head  and  could  not  speak. 

The  colonel  sighed,  and  his  cheeks  were  red.  His  head 
sank  upon  his  hands.  He  was  young  again,  and  walking 


282     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

down  an  endless  lane  of  green  with  a  maiden  by  his  side, 
and  her  hand  was  in  his.  They  sat  down  by  the  side  of  a 
running  stream.  Her  fair  head  lay  on  his  shoulder,  and 
she  was  his  wife.  The  colonel's  lips  moved  as  if  he  were 
saying  to  himself  words  of  love,  and  his  arms  went  out  to 
her  who  had  been  dead  this  many  a  year,  and  a  tear,  per- 
haps the  last  he  ever  shed,  ran  down  his  cheek. 

UI  should  not,"  Mary  said  at  last,  "  have  let  you  talk  to 
me  like  this." 

Rob  looked  up  with  sudden  misgiving. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  will  never  consent,  and — I  knew 
that ;  I  have  known  it  all  along." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  up  now,"  Rob  said  passion- 
ately, and  he  looked  as  if  he  would  run  away  with  her  that 
moment. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  listen  to  you,"  said  Mary.  "  I  did 
not  mean  to  do  so,  but  I — I " — her  voice  sank  into  a  whis- 
per— "I  wanted  to  know " 

"  To  know  that  I  loved  you  !  Ah,  you  have  known  all 
along." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  "  but  I  wanted — I  wanted  to  hear 
you  say  so  yourself." 

Rob's  arms  went  over  her  like  a  hoop. 

"Rob,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "you  must  go  away,  and 
never  see  me  any  more." 

"I  won't,"  cried  Rob;  "you  are  to  be  my  wife.  He 
shall  not  part  us." 

"  It  can  never  be,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  shall  see  him — I  shall  compel  him  to  consent." 
Mary  shook  her  head. 

"You  don't  want  to  marry  me,"  Rob  said  fiercely,  draw- 
ing back  from  her.  "  You  do  not  care  for  me.  What 
made  you  say  you  did  ?  " 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  back  now,"  Mary  said,  and  the  soft- 
ness of  her  voice  contrasted  strangely  with  the  passion  in  his. 

"  I  shall  go  with  you,"  Rob  answered,  "  and  see  your 
father." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mary ;  "  we  must  say  good-bye  here, 
now." 


A  Happy   Ending  283 

Rob  turned  on  her  with  all  the  dourness  of  the  Anguses 
in  him. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  and  left  her.  Mary  put  her  hand 
to  her  heart,  but  he  was  already  turning  back. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  so  much 
harder  to  me  than  to  you  ?  " 

"  Mary,  my  beloved,"  Rob  cried.  She  swayed  in  her 
saddle,  and  if  he  had  not  been  there  to  catch  her  she  would 
have  fallen  to  the  ground. 

Rob  heard  a  footstep  at  his  side,  and,  looking  up,  saw 
Colonel  Abinger.  The  old  man's  face  was  white,  but 
there  was  a  soft  look  in  his  eye,  and  he  stooped  to  take 
Mary  to  his  breast. 

u  No,"  Rob  said,  with  his  teeth  closed,  "  you  can't  have 
her.  She's  mine." 

"Yes,"  the  colonel  said  sadly;  "she's  yours." 

(When  a  Man's  Single,  London,  1888.} 


284     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 


TENDER  MEMORIES 

ANTHONY    HOPE 

hear  you  talk,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hilary  Musgrave — 
and,  if  any  one  is  surprised  to  find  me  at  her 
house,  I  can  only  say  that  Hilary,  when  he  asked  me  to 
take  pot-luck,  was  quite  ignorant  of  any  ground  of  differ- 
ence between  his  wife  and  myself,  and  that  Mrs.  Hilary 
could  not  very  well  eject  me  on  my  arrival  in  evening 
dress  at  ten  minutes  to  eight — "  to  hear  you  talk  one  would 
think  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  real  love." 

She  paused.     I  smiled. 

"Now,"  she  continued,  turning  a  fine,  but  scornful  eye 
upon  me,  "  I  have  never  cared  for  any  man  in  the  world 
except  my  husband." 

I  smiled  again.  Poor  Hilary  looked  very  uncomfortable. 
With  an  apologetic  air  he  began  to  stammer  something 
about  Parish  Councils.  I  was  not  to  be  diverted  by  any 
such  manoeuvre.  It  was  impossible  that  he  could  really 
wish  to  talk  on  that  subject. 

"Would  a  person  who  had  never  eaten  anything  but  beef 
make  a  boast  of  it  ? "  I  asked. 

Hilary  grinned  covertly.  Mrs.  Hilary  pulled  the  lamp 
nearer,  and  took  up  her  embroidery. 

"  Do  you  always  work  the  same  pattern  ?  "  said  I. 

Hilary  kicked  me  gently.  Mrs.  Hilary  made  no  direct 
reply,  but  presently  she  began  to  talk. 

"  I  was  just  about  Phyllis's  age — (by  the  way,  little  Miss 
Phyllis  was  there) — when  I  first  saw  Hilary.  You  remem- 
ber, Hilary  ?  At  Bournemouth  ?  " 

"  Oh — er — was  it  Bournemouth  ?  "  said  Hilary,  with 
much  carelessness. 

"  I  was  on  the  pier,"  pursued  Mrs.  Hilary.  "  I  had  a 
red  frock  on,  I  remember,  and  one  of  those  big  hats  they 
wore  that  year.  Hilary  wore " 


Tender   Memories  285 

"  Blue  serge,"  I  interpolated,  encouragingly. 

"Yes,  blue  serge,"  said  she  fondly.  "He  had  been 
yachting,  and  he  was  beautifully  burnt.  I  was  horribly 
burnt — wasn't  I,  Hilary?" 

Hilary  began  to  pat  the  dog. 

"  Then  we  got  to  know  one  another." 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  said  I.     "  How  did  that  happen  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hilary  blushed. 

"  Well,  we  were  both  always  on  the  pier,"  she  explained. 
"  And — and  somehow  Hilary  got  to  know  father,  and — and 
father  introduced  him  to  me." 

"  I'm  glad  it  was  no  worse,"  said  I.  I  was  considering 
Miss  Phyllis,  who  sat  listening,  open-eyed. 

"  And  then,  you  know,  father  wasn't  always  there ;  and 
once  or  twice  we  met  on  the  cliff.  Do  you  remember  that 
morning,  Hilary  ?  " 

"What  morning?  "  asked  Hilary,  patting  the  dog  with 
immense  assiduity. 

"  Why,  the  morning  I  had  my  white  serge  on.  I'd  been 
bathing,  and  my  hair  was  down  to  dry,  and  you  said  I  looked 
like  a  mermaid." 

"  Do  mermaids  wear  white  serge  ?  "  I  asked ;  but  no- 
body took  the  least  notice  of  me — quite  properly. 

"And  you  told  me  such  a  lot  about  yourself ;  and  then 
we  found  we  were  late  for  lunch." 

"Yes,"  said  Hilary,  suddenly  forgetting  the  dog,  "  and 
your  mother  gave  me  an  awful  glance." 

"Yes,  and  then  you  told  me  that  you  were  very  poor, 
but  that  you  couldn't  help  it ;  and  you  said  you  supposed  I 
couldn't  possibly " 

"Well,  I  didn't  think !" 

"And  I  said  you  were  a  silly  old  thing;  and  then " 

Mrs.  Hilary  stopped  abruptly. 

"  How  lovely  !  "  remarked  little  Miss  Phyllis  in  a  wist- 
ful voice. 

"  And  do  you  remember,"  pursued  Mrs.  Hilary,  laying 
down  her  embroidery  and  clasping  her  hands  on  her  knees, 
"  the  morning  you  went  to  see  father  ?  " 

"What  a  row  there  was  !  "  said  Hilary. 

41  And  what   an   awful  week   it  was   after  that!     I  was 


286     Love  in    Literature  and  Art 

never  so  miserable  in  all  my  life.  I  cried  till  my  eyes  were 
quite  red,  and  then  I  bathed  them  for  an  hour,  and  then  I 
went  to  the  pier,  and  you  were  there — and  I  mightn't  speak 
to  you  ! " 

"  I  remember,"  said  Hilary,  nodding  gently. 

"  And  then,  Hilary,  father  sent  for  me  and  told  me  it  was 
no  use;  and  I  said  I'd  never  marry  any  one  else.  And 
father  said,  'There,  there,  don't  cry.  We'll  see  what 
mother  says.' ' 

"Your  mother  was  a  brick,"  said  Hilary,  poking  the 
fire. 

11  And  that  night — they  never  told  me  anything  about  it, 
and  I  didn't  even  change  my  frock,  but  came  down,  look- 
ing horrible,  just  as  I  was,  in  an  old  black  rag Now, 

Hilary,  don't  say  it  was  pretty  !  " 

Hilary,  unconvinced,  shook  his  head. 

"  And  when  I  walked  into  the  drawing-room  there  was 
nobody  there  but  just  you;  and  we  neither  of  us  said  any- 
thing for  ever  so  long.  And  then  father  and  mother  came 
in  and — do  you  remember  after  dinner,  Hilary  ?  " 

"I  remember,"  said  Hilary. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Mrs.  Hilary  was  looking  into 
the  fire ;  little  Miss  Phyllis's  eyes  were  fixed,  in  rapt  gaze, 
on  the  ceiling ;  Hilary  was  looking  at  his  wife — I,  thinking 
it  safest,  was  regarding  my  own  boots. 

At  last  Miss  Phyllis  broke  the  silence. 

"  How  perfectly  lovely  !  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary.  "  And  we  were  married  three 
months  afterwards." 

"Tenth  of  June,"  said  Hilary,  reflectively. 

14  And  we  had  the  most  charming  little  rooms  in  the 
world  !  Do  you  remember  those  first  rooms,  dear  ?  So 
tiny  !  " 

"  Not  bad  little  rooms,"  said  Hilary. 

"  How  awfully  lovely  !  "  cried  little  Miss  Phyllis. 

I  felt  that  it  was  time  to  interfere. 

"  And  is  that  all  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  All  ?  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Hilary,  with  a 
slight  start. 

"  Well,   I   mean,   did   nothing   else   happen  ?     Weren't 


Tender   Memories  287 

there  any  complications  ?  Weren't  there  any  more  troubles, 
or  any  more  opposition,  or  any  misunderstanding,  or  any^ 
thing  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"  You  never  quarrelled,  or  broke  it  off  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Nobody  came  between  you  ?  " 

"  No.  It  all  went  just  perfectly.  Why,  of  course  ii 
did." 

"  Hilary's  people  made  themselves  nasty,  perhaps  ?  "  1 
suggested,  with  a  ray  of  hope.  . 

"They  fell  in  love  with  her  on  the  spot,"  said  Hilary. 

Then  I  rose  and  stood  with  my  back  to  the  fire. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  I  observed,  "  what  Miss  Phyllis  thinks 
about  it " 

"I  think  it  was  just  perfect,  Mr.  Carter." 

"  But  for  my  part,  I  can  only  say  that  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  dull  affair  in  all  my  life." 

"Dull!  "  gasped  Miss  Phyllis. 

"Dull!  "  murmured  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"Dull /"chuckled  Hilary. 

"It  was,"  said  I  severely,  "without  a  spark  of  interest 
from  beginning  to  end.  Such  things  happen  by  thousands. 
It's  commonplaceness  itself.  I  had  some  hopes  when  your 
father  assumed  a  firm  attitude,  but " 

"  Mother  was  such  a  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"Just  so.  She  gave  away  the  whole  situation.  Then  I 
did  trust  that  Hilary  would  lose  his  place,  or  develop  an  old 
flame,  or  do  something  just  a  little  interesting." 

"  It  was  a  perfect  time,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"  I  wonder  why  in  the  world  you  told  me  about  it,"  I 
pursued. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  did,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary  dreamily. 

"  The  only  possible  excuse  for  an  engagement  like  that," 
I  observed,  "  is  to  be  found  in  intense  post-nuptial  unhappi- 
ness." 

Hilary  rose,  and  advanced  toward  his  wife. 

"Your  embroidery's  falling  on  the  floor,"  said  he. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  he  persisted ;  and  he  picked  it  up  and  gave 


288     Love   in    Literature  and  Art 

it  to  her.  Miss  Phyllis  smiled  delightedly.  Hilary  had 
squeezed  his  wife's  hand. 

"  Then  we  don't  excuse  it,"  said  he. 

I  took  out  my  watch.  I  was  not  finding  much  entertain- 
ment. 

"  Surely  it's  quite  early,  old  man  ?"  said  Hilary. 

"It's  nearly  eleven.  We've  spent  half-an-hour  on  the 
thing,"  said  I  peevishly,  holding  out  my  hand  to  my 
hostess. 

"  Oh,  are  you  going  ?     Good-night,  Mr.  Carter." 

I  turned  to  Miss  Phyllis. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  think  all  love-affairs  are  like  that," 
I  said  ;  but  I  saw  her  lips  begin  to  shape  into  "lovely,"  and 
I  hastily  left  the  room. 

Hilary  came  to  help  me  on  with  my  coat.  He  looked 
extremely  apologetic,  and  very  much  ashamed  of  himself. 

"Awfully  sorry,  old  chap,"  said  he,  "that  we  bored  you 
with  our  reminiscences.  I  know,  of  course,  that  they  can't 
be  very  interesting  to  other  people.  Women  are  so  con- 
foundedly romantic." 

"  Don't  try  that  on  with  me,"  said  I,  much  disgusted. 
"  You  were  just  as  bad  yourself." 

He  laughed,  as  he  leant  against  the  door. 

"She  did  look  ripping  in  that  white  frock,"  he  said, 
"with  her  hair " 

"Stop,"  said  I,  firmly.  "She  looked  just  like  a  lot  of 
other  girls." 

"  I'm  hanged  if  she  did  !  "  said  Hilary. 

Then  he  glanced  at  me  with  a  puzzled  sort  of  ex- 
pression. 

"  I  say,  old  man,  weren't  you  ever  that  way  yourself  ?  " 
he  asked. 

I  hailed  a  hansom  cab. 

"  Because,  if  you  were,  you  know,  you'd  understand  how 
a  fellow  remembers  ever^ " 

"Good-night,"  said  I.  "At  least  I  suppose  you're  not 
coming  to  the  club  ?  " 

"Well,  I  think  not,"  said  Hilary.  "  Ta-ta,  old  fellow. 
Sorry  we  bored  you.  Of  course,  if  a  man  has  never " 

"  Never  !  "  I  groaned.     "  A  score  of  times  !  " 


*^ 


-  Tadetna. 


PROMISE   OF   SPRING 


Tender   Memories  289 


"Well,  then,  doesn't  it 


"  No,"  said  I.  "  It's  just  that  that  makes  stories  like 
yours  so  infernally " 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Hilary  ;  for  I  had  paused  to  light  a 
cigarette. 

"  Uninteresting,"  said  I,  getting  into  my  cab. 

(The  Dolly  Dialogues,  London, 


A     000  045  544     4 


